


Hey, baby. What's your sign?

by floatawaysomedays



Series: Hey, baby. What's your sign? [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Hate at First Sight, M/M, Minor Violence, and, john winchester is not a saint, mentions of - Freeform, mentions of previous casxanna
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2017-12-18 01:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatawaysomedays/pseuds/floatawaysomedays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Dean is the star pitcher for the Kansas Kites, and Sam is the brand new first baseman. They’ve already been nicknamed the ‘Winchester Duo’ by ESPN, and the team is steadily climbing it’s way to the top after a seven year slump. Enter Castiel, the replacement catcher after Ash slips and breaks his leg, effectively putting him out of commission for the rest of the season. </p>
<p>Let’s just say, it’s definitely not love at first sight.  A story about the ‘I’ in team, and the world series that John Winchester always wanted for his favorite team. And his boys. </p>
<p>Updates every saturday</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're an idiot.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dean. Are you even listening to me."

The guy has no conception of personal space. He’s standing almost on top of Dean, and it’s too much, too close. Dean is trying to think, to process everything around them including the hitter at the plate. He’s trying to focus, but it’s not working because this guy smells like sweat and leather, and spearmint gum and now is really not the time.

“Yeah, yeah. I hear ya, Cas.”

And he does. He hears the catcher through the gloves and hands covering and blocking their words from everyone. From the rest of the stadium singing and yelling and buzzing around them. From the cameras and the coaches and everyone on the opposing team. On the pitcher’s mound it’s just the two of them cocooned in their own little safe haven to strategize.

They’re in the bottom of the ninth, with two outs. The Kansas Kites are winning, but only by one lucky home run Sammy managed to steal early in the game. Dean’s shoulder has about had it, and the hitter up to bat is a loose canon. There’s a rookie on first, and a seasoned player on second that’s already tried to make a break for third. If Dean plays his cards right, he could end this inning here and now. They could go home winners. If he doesn’t, well, they’re going to lose.

Castiel’s eyes narrow and he moves in even closer. “This guy is bad news. His stats are-”

“Okay already. Jesus.” It’s one hitter, not the World Series.

“Just.” Cas shakes his head, and then drops his mit. Dean can see Bobby and the new pitching coach, he thinks her name is Ellen, getting ready to bolt from the dugout. Getting ready to find out just what the hell they’re doing. Dean can already hear the quips aimed his way about tea parties with his new best buddy on the hill. “Be careful.”

Dean blinks, because what the hell is that supposed to mean, but Cas is already turning to walk back to home plate, still shaking his head.

Whatever.

Dean’s been around the block twice now. He’s run the gamut. He knows the players, maybe not with the sort of iron-clad memory that Cas has, but the point stands. Dean knows Gordon is trouble. Castiel doesn’t have to tell him about the hit ratio, or his average or to fucking be careful for Dean to be able to figure it out. He’s got experience where Cas has stats. He’s got instincts where Cas has formulas and equations.

Cas isn’t the pitcher, he’s the catcher. He only calls or suggests the pitches, he doesn’t throw them.

Dean does.

Dean scuffs the toe of his cleats into the mound, and wipes at his face with the sleeve of his uniform shirt while he’s waiting for Cas to get in position. He rolls his shoulders, and twists the ball in his right hand. Over and under and over and under. His index finger rubs over the red-lined seam. Back and forth and back and forth. The familiar pattern is calming. It blocks everything else out. One glance over at Sammy on first, and then Victor on second, and he’s pulling his glove up to meet his other hand. He looks at Gordon, briefly, and then Castiel’s touching his knee pads to the dirt for balance.

At least that’s what it looks like to everyone else.

The catcher flicks his fingers in the v of his legs. It’s quick, with Cas it always is. Dean spares a thought to Ash, who was slow and deliberate with his signals, but is now lying around with a busted leg watching the game on TV. Playing with the new catcher is like trying on a suit that belongs to Sam. It’s too big, and the angles are all wrong. The sleeves cover up his hands, the pant legs need to be rolled up. It looks stupid, and everyone that’s paying attention can tell that it’s just not your suit. That the fit isn’t right.

Castiel has a different style, and Dean still isn’t used to it.

Dean catches the first two numbers. One and four. Their sign for a curve ball. Dean holds the ball in his mit, and takes his hat off. Scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Nope. Dean’s not doing a curve. Not with this guy.

Castiel shifts his crouched stance in annoyance, and tries again. The numbers flash by, and Dean draws his glove up before the last two are even fully formed.

Fastball. Yeah, Dean can do that.

The whole exchange is over in a matter of seconds and then Gordon is swinging his bat up.

Let’s get this show on the road.

He breathes out and Cas opens his glove up. Dean risks a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the other player is still on second, and then.

Then he moves.

One leg drawn up just so, the fingers of the hand throwing the ball positioned perfectly, his right arm curving in just there to make the correct angle, his whole body in motion until the ball is spinning, towards the plate. And Dean is grinning during his follow through because, damn, that was a great throw. Especially for the bottom of the ninth.

Until he sees the way Gordon has his bat angled. The way his eyes are locked on the ball. His goddamn smirk.The bastard is going to bunt a fucking fastball. Dean can hear John’s voice in his head all over again what a dick move, and he knows he’s in trouble because he’s still got one leg in the air, no balance, and Gordon hit the ball.

Gordon hit the fucking ball that’s moving at somewhere around 90 mph, and he’s just standing there, watching the fall out. He’s not even trying to make it to first base. To Sammy.

Cas is taking his mask off and standing in one smooth move, and the Umpire is saying something, and Dean thinks he hears someone yelling his name but it’s like the entire stadium is in slow motion. Dean can’t get his glove up fast enough and the ball is moving, moving, moving straight towards him and he tries to correct himself but all he can do is turn his head even though he’s supposed to keep his eye on the ball. Dean. Always keep your eye on the ball.

The next thing he feels is the dirt of the mound under him and there’s a lot of yelling happening somewhere to his right, but it’s all really far away so it must not be very important. The important part is the fact that his head feels like someone ran a truck over it, and then backed up and went for another round. And it fucking hurts and he hasn’t even tried to open his eyes yet.

“Dean? Come on, man. Dean!” Oh. That voice. It’s nice but the noise needs to stop because ow. He tries to move, but everything feels heavy. “Sammy?”

“Yeah. No, don’t get up. Just… just relax for a minute. The paramedics are going to take you. I gotta go take care of something.”

Take care of something. That..that doesn’t sound good.

Dean opens his eyes, and turns his head to watch Sam’s retreating figure. Castiel has managed to lose the Ump somewhere. He’s got the front of Gordon’s shirt fisted in his left hand, gesturing with the other, and he looks so pissed it throws Dean off. Gordon is leaning in and saying something back and then Cas is ripping his helmet off, throwing it across the field, setting his stance, drawing back a fist, and aiming it straight for Gordon’s face.

The first punch has been thrown. All bets are off now.

Victor is socking the guy from second base in the jaw while Castiel ducks Gordon’s jabs. Gabriel is running towards the melee from the dugout. Players wearing gray and orange uniforms are spilling out from the opposite side of the field trying to get to the fight. The static noise from the crowd is changing into a loud buzz as more players join in. Sam is raising his voice above the din, running to the fight, trying to put out the fire that’s spreading. Dean can hear him telling Castiel to stop, damn it. He’s fine!

 

Dean thinks he might be in some sort of shock because Castiel started a fight. The guy that everyone pokes fun at because he doesn’t care about anything. He never gets excited when they win. He’s never in a slump when they lose. Dean’s only witnessed Cas crack the hint of a smile once when Uriel told a stupid, simple joke. This is the player ESPN has nicknamed ‘Stone Cold Cas’. The catcher no one can read because his emotions are on lock down. It’s crazy. If Dean hadn’t seen it with his own eyes he wouldn’t have believed it. The rock of the team hit another player.

This is definitely going to make the news.

Sammy has managed to wedge himself between Cas and Gordon by now, and Gabriel is trying to hold Cas back while Bobby tells them to break it up. Gordon is touching his nose delicately. Castiel’s chest is heaving, and he’s flexing the fingers of his right hand. His hair is sticking up all over the place in black spikes as he shrugs out of Gabriel’s grip.

The paramedics are coming across the field now, with their kits and their bags, and Dean’s already tired of the questions that this is going to spark across the wires. Tired of the interviews and the never ending parade of ‘what’s next?’

A set of deep blue eyes come into focus as he turns away from the field, and he squints up even though he feels like his head might explode.

“You’re an idiot.”

The words are harsh, but there’s a hand on his shoulder, and Cas is shaking his head a little differently this time, more in fond exasperation than genuine frustration, so Dean smiles as he closes his eyes. He never really liked Cas, but he’s starting to reevaluate his first impression of the catcher. Maybe there’s something underneath that straight faced exterior after all.

Something that Dean sorta likes.

“Yeah, but I’m the idiot you just went to bat for.”

“Don’t remind me, Dean.”

 


	2. You're fine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Dean is the star pitcher for the Kansas Kites, and Sam is the brand new first baseman. They’ve already been nicknamed the ‘Winchester Duo’ by ESPN, and the team is steadily climbing it’s way to the top after a seven year slump. Enter Castiel, the replacement catcher after Ash slips and breaks his leg, effectively putting him out of commission for the rest of the season. 
> 
> Let’s just say, it’s definitely not love at first sight. A story about the ‘I’ in team, and the world series that John Winchester always wanted for his favorite team. And his boys.

Dean remembers a time when they used to toss a worn out ball back and forth in the scrapyard together. When Sam’s baseball glove had patches and tears and spots rubbed raw from too much play. When they would stay out for hours until the stars peeked out, and Bobby started calling from the house about idgits and stitches.

It seems far away sometimes.

The fancy equipment and starched uniforms get in the way of the casual games Dean loved so much. The coaches and managers and owners all clamoring for one thing to be adjusted, or another to be fixed. The big stadium, complete with screaming crowds.

It’s a far cry from the little league team Sam begged and pleaded about in second grade, but that’s never stopped Dean. Not during little league, or high school. Not even in college.

Definitely not now in the Major Leagues.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeey batter, batter. SA- _WING_ , batta batta.”

His baby brother is standing at the plate, his baseball cap twisted around backwards to hold in his ridiculous hair, and the bat held up over his shoulder.

Sam doesn’t react outwardly, but Dean is sure he’s heard the catcall. Sam hitches the bat a little higher, and adjusts his stance before the machine let’s a ball fly towards home plate.

Sam makes that face, the one he’s made since he was two and Dean tried to toss a baseball his way. His nose scrunches up, and his mouth twists in a smirk as he swings, hard. His whole body turns into the movement and then the ball is soaring over the pitchers mound, over second base, and-

Into Victor’s mit.

Behind the chain link fence of the dugout, Dean cups his hands around his mouth and yells. “He can’t hit, he can’t hit, he can’t _hit_ , _he can’t hit_ , swing, batta!”

Sam taps the bat against his left foot and then his right, licks his lips, and then he’s turning the bat in his hands. Twisting it until he’s changed the angle ever so slightly.

The machine shoots another ball.

Sam swings.

“His stance isn’t open enough.”

Sam misses and almost loses his balance.

Dean keeps his eyes on Sammy, because he’s just missed an easy straight shot and Dean knows how frustrating that can be. But he nods at the field to acknowledge that he heard the catcher that has managed to sneak up behind him.

He tries to remember that the last time he didn’t listen to what Castiel had to say, he ended up flat on his back.

And not in a good way.

Dean ended up in the hospital for twenty four hours. He was sent through every machine and test known to man to determine that he was the proud owner of a concussion.

Shocker, right?

But it could have been worse, taking a baseball to the brain at eighty miles an hour, give or take, could have caused some serious bleeding or damage.

Could have killed him if it hit in just the right spot, at the right angle.

Dean’s lucky that he’s been benched for the week, and the next two games, and told to watch the team practices until the swelling dies down enough so he can get back on the field where he really belongs.

So he’s watching Sammy bat, because it’s fun to taunt his little brother, but it’s also better than wringing his hands and listening to Gabriel and Uriel bicker back and forth on the field.

It’s easier behind the fence.

So Dean isn’t really in a chatty sort of mood but if Castiel seems to know something about Sammy’s swing…

Well. Let’s just say Dean’s learned his lesson the hard way the first go around.

He nudges his aviators a little higher to block out the sun, and shifts his weight so there’s room for Castiel in the space between the fence and the stairs. If he wants it.

“Alright, boy wonder. Talk to me.”

He takes the invitation for what it’s worth and steps up to stand beside Dean with his hands behind his back. He’s two inches too close, but Dean’s starting to get used to it. The nonexistent personal space. In a way it’s.. it’s sort of comforting.

Which is weird.

“It’s his height. He should be widening his stance instead of narrowing it.”

And, yeah. Now that Cas has pointed it out it makes a hell of a lot of sense. “A strong base.”

“Exactly.”

Dean pauses while Sam moves to the plate again. Tries to think back to what the older guy with the red hat had yelled at his brother from across the field about half an hour ago. Tries, and fails, to remember just what his name was. “His coach thinks he needs to change his grip.”

“His coach is an idiot.” At that, Dean does turn to look at the catcher, his eyebrows raised. Castiel isn’t pulling any punches. His tone is flat, matter of fact, when he says, “He’s given that piece of advice to every player on this team. Sam doesn’t choke up on the bat. His hands are relaxed. His grip was never a problem. However, Sam is very tall. His stance needs to be more open to accommodate his frame. His hitting style is just different.”

Dean stares. Castiel shrugs.

“Just a thought.”

“It’s a very, uh, _detailed_ thought, Cas. You been studying Sammy?”

“I study everyone.” Castiel turns from the practice field and squints at Dean. His hands move from behind his back to gesture at his temple. “Speaking of which.”

And that’s the funny part. Castiel doesn’t even have to go into details for Dean to know what he’s asking after, or what he wants. They’ve only known of each other for a few months, and tolerated one another for an even shorter period of time.

Dean is just starting to actually like the guy

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are. That’s why you’ve secluded yourself in the darkest part of the dugout and commandeered Sam’s godawful sunglasses.”

Dean takes it back. He never liked Cas. Ever. The guy reads into everything like it’s his personal mission from God.

“Hey! Don’t knock the shades. Aviators are in, man.”

Castiel takes another step forward, and they’re almost bumping noses now, to take them off. He makes a disapproving noise. “You’re not sleeping.”

Dean snatches his, no _Sam’s_ , glasses back and frowns before moving back to the fence, toying with the bridge. “Somehow I don’t think you have a medical license.”

“You took a tremendous blow to the head.”

Dean doesn’t say anything because, _uh, yeah, sherlock, we’re aware_. He thinks that will probably be the end of it. In fact, he really hopes that Cas gives it up. Sam has been easy enough to fool, and-

“This is only a game. A concussion is not something to toy with, Dean. If you still need medical attention I’m sure-”

“What are you, my mother? Christ.” Dean glances at Sam quickly to make sure he’s still batting, blissfully unaware, and then turns to face Castiel. “Never met somebody who cared so goddamn much about everybody else in my life. Do you have to stick your finger in everybody’s fucking pie? Or just mine?”

Castiel scowls, but Dean ignores it. He’s probably offended that Dean cut him off or something.

Whatever.

He has a childish moment of he started it, but that fades quickly. Dean isn’t five years old anymore, even if Castiel makes him feel like he is most of the time.

“This is stupid. I’m _fine_.”

“Alright.” The scowl transforms into something like understanding, and Cas sits on the bench. Parks himself directly in front of Dean and crosses his arms over his chest. His expression flatlines. The pointed concern from before, has been pulled back behind walls Castiel has constructed to keep others at a safe distance. He’s the cold, calculated bastard Dean met on the field the day after Ash hurt himself. “You’re fine.”

Dean could leave it there. He really should. Just let Castiel think whatever the hell he wants.

They’re both acting like babies. Dean is putting up a fuss over nothing, and Castiel is giving him the silent treatment for the fuss, which is what he wanted, and it’s all just one big mess of _it’s none of your business_.

So, he does leave it there. Dean watches Sammy, and the more he watches, the more he realizes that Castiel was right. Sam does need to widen his stance in the batter’s box. He needs to turn his left foot just a little more, and his right a little less.

Truth be told, the catcher didn’t have to say anything and Sam’s coach probably would have fucked with his brother’s swing until it was a far cry from the record-breaking swing Dean knew Sam had in him.

Screw it.

“I don’t sleep well to begin with. I’m lucky if I manage a few solid hours. And ever since Sam moved in with Jess… anyway. I’m a big boy. I know my limits. It’s not a big deal, okay? Just leave it alone.”

Cas opens his mouth to say something, but snaps it shut immediately, and leans back.

Dean gestures with his right hand at the field behind them, hoping to change the subject. “What are you even doing here? I thought you were on probation or whatever.”

“Or whatever.” He cracks a small grin and shakes his head. The catcher sobers and looks at the dirt. At his worn sneakers, and then at the busted skin on the knuckles of his right hand. “I’m only suspended from the next two games.”

Dean punches out a laugh. “The same two games I have to miss?”

“I believe Bobby’s exact words were ‘you dumbasses better straighten it out before we get back’.”

Sounds like Bobby. Dean’s been around long enough to know the basics of the unspoken Code. You rub something in the other team’s face? It’s not going to go unchecked. You hit someone on purpose? You better expect something equal coming your way in retaliation.

The game is about respect. Gordon lost his in the ninth inning, apparently. Dean just hopes Cas punched enough sense back into him so the next pitcher on the lineup doesn’t meet the same end.

“I gotta be honest, Cas, I never pegged you as a bench-clearer.”

“I’m not.” Cas insists. “I’ve never started an altercation during a game before. I don’t know what came over me.”

Only Castiel would call a fist fight an altercation. “Well, thanks, I guess.”

“It was nothing.”

Dean knows better, but he’s not going to call the guy on it. That sort of shit goes on the record. Not official, mind you, but there’s always a quiet record of which players are volatile and which ones only start things because they were told to. It’s one thing to start a fight. It’s another to get up off the bench because it’s expected of you.

Dean has a short list in his head labeled ‘dangerous SOB’s’, so he’s sure that Bobby has one a mile long in his office somewhere under the mess of paperwork.

Which brings him back to what Bobby wants. “So. Two weeks vacation. Got anything planned?”

“Nothing in particular. Why?”

Maybe it’s thirty odd years living with Sammy, maybe it’s his sense of humor, but Dean can’t help himself. “I thought we should learn the tango.”

Castiel tilts his head. “I don’t think that’s what Bobby meant-”

“Joke, Cas. It was a joke.”

Dean laughs while Cas pretends to be angry. It’s working. Except for the small smile curling his lips. “I hate you.”

“I know.”


	3. You're crazy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Dean is the star pitcher for the Kansas Kites, and Sam is the brand new first baseman. They’ve already been nicknamed the ‘Winchester Duo’ by ESPN, and the team is steadily climbing it’s way to the top after a seven year slump. Enter Castiel, the replacement catcher after Ash slips and breaks his leg, effectively putting him out of commission for the rest of the season. 
> 
> Let’s just say, it’s definitely not love at first sight. A story about the ‘I’ in team, and the world series that John Winchester always wanted for his favorite team. And his boys.

Castiel is not a morning person.

Dean shows up on his doorstep at exactly six a.m. with two coffees and a bag of donuts in hand as a peace offering. They aren’t gourmet, but Dean thinks they’ll work.

Bribery is his friend.

The hoops he had to jump through just to get on the elevator were ringed with fire. The kind that jumps out at you, and singes the hair on your arms. The guy in the downstairs lobby played twenty questions until he was satisfied that Dean wasn’t going to blow the place up.

Something about his black leather jacket must scream ‘I’m big trouble, make sure I’m not armed and dangerous.’

And anyway, since when does Cas live in a fucking five star hotel?

 

Dean knew somewhere in the back of his mind that Castiel wasn’t actually from Kansas. He wasn’t raised in Lawrence like Sam and Dean. He didn’t live here originally.

But it still feels weird that the dude doesn’t have an actual apartment here, and that’s a whole other ball of wax because Cas must have a nice place somewhere, but Dean has no clue where that somewhere might be. Has no idea where Cas even grew up as a kid.

Hotels are expensive. Dean knows firsthand from away games and visiting Sam while he was away at college. That shit adds up quick if you’re not careful.

The mini-bar will hit your wallet every time if you don’t think ahead. Dean’s been down that road wayy too many times.

He’s also knocked on the door quite a few times before Cas actually answers. 

The poor guy looks like he’s still half asleep. He’s all…sleep rumpled in his boxers and worn out t-shirt. He squints at Dean, his hair even more of a mess than usual which is really ador-

Nope. No. Dean cuts his brain off at the pass.

Cas is not that word. He isn’t. That word is reserved for things like puppies and newborns. Not the catcher that threw a bat at Dean two days ago for ignoring his spiel about framing and cues and, damn it, Dean, you aren’t even listening to me. what the hell are you even looking at?

Dean definitely was not ogling the guys ass. He’ll take that to his grave.

“Why are you here… it’s-” He looks down at his wrist, realizes he isn’t wearing the watch, and then sighs. “It’s still dark outside.”

“Well, hello to you, too, sweetie. Did you forget about our date?”

“Date?” Cas echoes.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, practice. You.” Dean points at Cas with the hand holding the bag of donuts. “Me. The whole ‘we suck’ thing we were going to work on?”

“Oh.” If anything, Castiel’s frown deepens. “It’s too early for that.”

Too early. He’s funny. “For crying out loud. Are you going to invite me in, or not?”

He starts to shut the door, and Dean sticks his foot over the threshold and barges his way in.

Dean doesn’t need an invitation. He’s not a vampire, or Jesus, and Cas has already agreed to practice even if he didn’t agree on the exact time.

“It’s supposed to downpour tonight, so I figured we should get an early start.”

They don’t really get an early start.

It’s an entire production.

Castiel has to shower and get dressed instead of just throwing on yesterday’s clothes. He runs around the room tidying the already immaculate counter-tops and surfaces, which Dean is positive the maid does every day, and gathering his stuff for practice. Then there’s donuts and black coffee, which Castiel disapproves of and adds so much sugar that Dean asks him if he’s having coffee with sugar or sugar with his coffee.. And there’s talk of last night’s game that they watched separately.

Sam hit a home run in the fourth inning with the bases loaded against a pitcher that had a no hitter going. His smile was so bright when he rounded the bases, Dean was transported back to their childhood for all of ten minutes. 

Dean wished he could have been there.

After that, it’s well past nine and Dean is starting to feel twitchy. His hands itch for a glove and a ball, and the mound, but Cas still has a call to make right before they leave so he leaves Dean alone in the main room.

And that’s where he finds them.

Dean doesn’t know Cas’s backstory, although he’s sure Cas knows his. It was spread across the news from the time Dean was born, until John turned into a washed up pitcher slash sob story who lost his wife in a tragic accident. His downward spiral is legendary, and not in a good way.

Dean is used to the looks and the speculation. He’s tired of it, to be honest. He’s not John, and neither is Sam. John was a shit player who liked to take risks without a second thought for the team. He made choices that were selfish.

Dean’s watched the games. He shouldn’t have been surprised that his drunk of a father blew every chance the Kites had of winning that last year.

So Cas probably knows all this in his motherboard of a brain, but Dean doesn’t know jack shit about Cas.

Well, except that he keeps to himself, and enjoys hot dogs in a way that is completely obscene.

So, maybe Dean is doing a little snooping because Cas left him alone. Or maybe Cas left them out on display for a reason. Doesn’t really matter why.

There’s a living area that’s sectioned off from the kitchen that Dean wanders into with a TV, a couch, and a recliner. A small coffee table sits in between the couch and the wall on one side of the room. And on the other side, pushed up against the wall, is a card table filled with baseball gloves. It looks like they’re arranged by.. type? They’re all catcher mitts, but Dean isn’t that familiar with-

“And you said I had my finger in everyone’s pie.’

Oops. Busted.

Dean’s reflexes must be getting better because he doesn’t flinch or jump like he used to when Cas materializes.

But he does wince. “Uh, sorry?”

Castiel doesn’t elaborate on the mitts, and Dean doesn’t press because he’s sorta already intruded enough. He’s barged into the room, yes, but this feels different somehow. More private.

And Dean isn’t going to push the issue because Cas might have questions of his own that Dean doesn’t want to answer. Better just to drop the whole thing. Better to let Cas just grab his glove and move out of sticky questions and dangerous territory.

When Dean opens the passenger side of the impala like the gentleman he really isn’t, Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not sure what you have planned but I don’t think I’m going to enjoy it.”

Dean smirks as they pull away from the curb.

_

Dean’s been to the stadium, but the team is gone, and the dugout is empty and it’s just too damn quiet to practice there. The only guy left on away game weeks is the janitor, Bob, and he’s silent and kind like a church mouse.

He needs background noise. Fans jeering or whatever. Guys from the team bickering back and forth. Coaches whispering behind hands. He can’t concentrate unless there’s something there hovering in his peripherals.

So, Dean might be taking Castiel home to Lawrence today.

Okay he definitely is, but Cas doesn’t need to know that this is homebase.

Dean comes back to the old field when he feels like he’s missing the name of the game. He goes back to find a reason to keep pitching and dealing with the coaches and the losses and having his name scratched off the roster. Dean went home when the Kites first signed him on. He went to toss a worn weathered ball back and forth with one of the neighborhood kids that never told him his name.

He goes back when he’s lost. It’s grounding. Dean could use some of that. Figures maybe Cas could, too.

The field is small, if Dean remembers correctly. Tiny, compared to the stadium. And it’s rundown. The grass is probably growing through the rusty bleachers.

But that’s small potatoes because the real reason they’re there isn’t just to stare at the old mound Dean pitched his first game on.

It’s the kids.

The ragtag teams that like to bat and catch and throw the ball to each other every afternoon. Dean knows they still come out here in the summer, even though the place is posted with ‘keep out’ and ‘no trespassing’ signs.

Never stopped him and Sam.

So, Dean parks his baby down the road a little ways, finds the secret path that leads to the field, and then he laces his fingers together to give Castiel a boost to climb the fence.

Cas just stares at him and crosses his arms.

“You’re crazy.”

“Oh, come on. Breaking the law is half the fun.”

“This is insane.” Castiel mutters, tossing his glove over, grabbing hold of the fence and stepping into Dean’s waiting hands. “I’ve befriended an irresponsible, crazy person who wakes me up at ungodly hours and asks me to break the law. I need better friends. Reasonable friends with references.”

“Would you just-” Dean huffs, lifting him up and over the chain-link fence, and fuck Cas looks small but he weighs a ton.

“Dean. Stop moving!”

There’s a scuffle, and Dean almost drops Castiel on his ass, but then he’s climbing up and over and dropping down on light feet on the other side. Dean follows over easily and then the kids are yelling for him. Already clamoring over who goes on each team.

“This is practice?” Castiel frowns. “But-”

“You’re over-thinking it, Cas.” Dean doesn’t add that the guy over-analyzes everything all the time and really needs to loosen up before he hurts himself. “No stats here. No cameras. No coaches or managers or lines drawn in the sand a million years ago. It’s just two guys and a bunch of kids playing a game.”

He looks skeptical, but Dean figures that’s fair. He’s in unfamiliar territory. Dean hasn’t played like this in ages. He’s willing to bet his next paycheck that it’s been even longer for Castiel.

“Okay.”

“Just like that?”

Castiel shrugs slightly. “I’m not sure I understand why you brought me here, but you rarely do anything without purpose. I trust your judgement.”

Dean didn’t see that coming, but he’s stupid happy about it. It doesn’t seem like Castiel lets a shit ton of people into his life, and then lets those same people make his decisions for him.

Dean feels strangely honored.

“Thanks, Cas.”

The guy cracks an honest to goodness smile as he adjusts his black cap and shoves his sunglasses over his eyes. “You won’t be thanking me after our team kicks your ass.”


	4. You're lying to yourself.

‘And next up, we have the Kansas Kites and the Baltimore Orioles. The Kites are undefeated so far this season. Bob, I wanna start by talking about first baseman Sam Winchester. He seems to be upping his game with a great bare-handed, double play in the second inning of the Kites last game, I think we have a clip of that, there it is. Just a great catch, and then he comes back to us in the top of the fourth, and breaks open the game with a grand slam.’

‘That’s all well and good, Rick, but the Kites pitcher, Dean Winchester was on medical leave after his last game two weeks ago. Between that, and the Kites new catcher, Castiel Lintz, the Kites don’t seem to be making the grade. But that could change, because it looks like Winchester is back in the rotation.’

‘I don’t know. The starting pitcher for the Orioles..’

Sam leans forward and grabs the remote to change the channel. Dean still isn’t sure why he even bothers watching the sports networks. All they do is speculate and list upcoming games, stats. Boring stuff. Bobby stuff. Stuff they already knew about anyway.

It’s like the gossip channel for sports players and fans.

“So,”

Dean rolls the beer from one hand to the other, and glances at Sam at the other end of the couch. When the rest of the question doesn’t manifest out of thin air, he asks. “So?”

“You took Cas to Ember Field. An hour out of the way. You jumped a fence. To practice.”

 

Sam is giving him that look. The one that says that he knows something that Dean hasn’t figured out yet. The one that is just this side of pity, and right on the line of ‘I told you so’.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah. It’s not a big deal..”

“Not a big deal.”

“No.”

The look morphs into ‘you’re lying to yourself, and we both know it.’, but Sam sighs and changes his approach. “And it went…well?”

Dean holds back a laugh. As well as it could have gone.

Castiel ended up following through on that promise. He did kick Dean’s ass. Well, him and the ragtag little team they managed to scrape together. Dean learned a couple things about Castiel that afternoon. He was great at directing and organizing a team. He seemed like a natural leader. Dean could see him coaching, or managing a team when he decided to give up catching.

But the most important thing that Dean filed away, was that Castiel could hit. Like, he could be the next Berra, hit.

Dean even told him that. Actually cornered the guy after the kids packed up, and tried to tell Cas that he was pretty damn impressed before they really started working.

Castiel had looked him in the eye, squinted, and asked him why? it was just a game with some twelve year olds, not the world series, Dean. Dean didn’t have a straight answer. Still doesn’t. Cas had thrown his hands up and went back to the catcher’s box mumbling something under his breath.

The day went south after that. It was like the catcher could call all of his pitches. Like he knew what Dean was going to throw before Dean knew.

Which is annoying, to say the least.

It was borderline creepy. Dean was starting to wonder if the guy was some kind of psychic. Or, worse, maybe Cas could just read Dean that easily. And if that was the case, Dean was in serious trouble. If he was that easy to call, the rest of the season was headed down the pipes, and fast. Every batter and manager on opposing teams would know he was easy bait. Once word got out, Bobby would have to knock him back to relief pitcher. Plenty of other, younger guys waiting to take his place in the starting lineup.

Predictable pitchers didn’t last too long in the majors, but Sammy didn’t need to know anything about that. He had enough on his plate as it was, and this was supposed to be a night off together just shooting the shit. Hanging out as brothers for once instead of pitcher and first baseman. Being teammates was great, but sometimes they just needed to not talk about baseball.

No point in telling Sam that Dean was questioning his entire pitching career over one stupid genius catcher that could call his every blink. It wasn’t as if either of them could do anything about it anyway.

“Yeah.” Another shrug. “He was cool about it. And we worked on some professional stuff to shut Bobby up.”

Well…sort of. It wasn’t a total lie.

Dean had stood on the mound, and pitched to a Castiel that predicted every throw before he threw it. Then they argued over framing up. Dean told Castiel that he wasn’t framing properly, Castiel told Dean to focus on pitching into the glove, and not what was behind it. They argued over hand signals and signs. Over which ones they could use and remember. Dean didn’t like one because it was too obvious, Cas hated the other because it wasn’t obvious enough.

It was incredibly frustrating. Dean couldn’t think of a time when the game was this.. hard. When he had to focus on what he was doing, and decide to play to win. When it started raining and they started to head back to the car, Castiel kept saying he had an idea. A plan that might change everything.

Dean doesn’t want to know what he means by that. Plans mean trouble. Dean doesn’t want trouble. He doesn’t want everything to change. He wants Castiel to catch, and frame up, and help him win games. 

But Cas was cool about it. That much was true.

“Did you listen to him?”

“About what?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “About pitching, Dean. About your game. About statistics, and working together.”

Time to come clean. “I did listen to him. Remember that advice I gave you about your swing a few weeks back?” Sam nods along, like he knew where this was going. “That was all Castiel’s idea. He’s the one that pointed it out. To be honest, Sam, I’m kinda embarrassed that he had to tell me what was wrong when it was staring me right in the face the entire time. So, yeah. I’m listening to him. But I’m not gonna change the way I pitch just because one catcher thinks it would be a good idea. That’s… that’s-”

“You have to trust someone, Dean. And that someone needs to be Cas. ”

“Sam-”

“No. Dean. Just listen to me for a sec, okay? If Bobby taught me anything about pitching, about what you do, it’s that the Battery is made up of two people, Dean. Two. The pitcher, and the catcher. For a whole team to work properly, we need both pieces of that particular puzzle to fit together. It’s like a team within a team. You and Ash, man.” Sam shakes his head. “I know you thought you were a good fit, but you weren’t. You walked all over him, and he let you. He went along with everything you said, he let you call all the shots. Cas has the balls to stand up to you, to call you out on your shit if he needs to. He’s trying to help you be a better pitcher, Dean. I think you should let him.”

Dean stares at his brother for a few seconds, trying to figure out where all this is coming from. Trying to figure out where to start. “Sam. First of all, Battery? Really? That term is so outdated I can’t believe you know what it means. And second, we’re fine, alright? We had a few weeks, so we ironed out some wrinkles in the plays. No big deal.”

“Don’t make me say it, Dean.”

“Say what.” Dean snaps. He’s losing his patience with this subject. He’s already hashed everything out with Bobby once, as much as he could, and now he has to report to Sam.

“Don’t make me compare you to him, okay? Don’t make me remind you who wouldn’t let anyone else have any control over his game. Please, for the love of God, Dean,” And now Sam has this pained look on his face like it hurts to even think about what he’s going to say next. “Don’t make me compare you to Dad.”

That was a low blow, and Sam knows it. “I’m nothing like Dad. He was drunk half the time he was playing, and he didn’t give a shit about anybody else on the team but himself. You know that’s not me, Sam. Don’t you ever compare me to him.”

Sam opens his mouth and shifts on the couch, but a voice from the office upstairs calls down to them before he can say anything in his own defense. “Boys, do I need to come down there and sit between you?”

“No, Jess! We’re just, uh-”

It always amazes Dean just how much control Jess has over Sam. How quickly he can shift gears from brother to doting husband, and make like everything is just wonderful when it really isn’t. One question and Sam is jumping up off the couch to help her down the stairs. Their conversation is probably half-forgotten already.

“I know what you’re doing. I can hear the baseball voices. You’re both getting all wound up, and this is supposed to be your break from work, Sam. Plus I can’t get anything done with you two down here bickering. So, I think it’s time we changed the channel, and maybe I’ll find some snacks. How’s that sound?”

It sounds peachy to Dean, because Jess makes the best cookies he’s ever had, and it means he’s got the last word in on the topic of Cas. They all make for the kitchen, but Sam shoots Dean a glance over his shoulder that says this isn’t over. That he hasn’t escaped just because Jess saved him.

Dean sticks his tongue out before he shoves another peanut butter cookie in his mouth.


	5. You listened to me.

Dean isn’t really sure how he ended up with two of Castiel’s fingers hooked into one of his belt loops. Couldn’t really tell you exactly what spurred it on, or how he ended up with his back to the lockers, and Cas pressing a hand against his chest, holding him in place.

Well, okay, maybe that’s a lie.  And it’s not like he’s  _complaining_  about Cas leading him around and slamming him against walls it’s..fuck, it’s sort of  _hot._

Bobby had called a quick meeting a few hours before the game. Dean wasn’t sure what it was all about, maybe strategy or something, but he went along with it. Even showed up ten minutes early after lunch.

Let Sam never say that he’s  _always_  late, because that would be a lie.

He’s chatting with Bobby when Castiel knocks lightly on the door frame  and frowns. Bobby just ushers them both in, and tells Castiel to shut the door behind him. Then he sits in the chair behind his desk, paperwork scattered across everything, the office a picture of that show about hoarders, and just looks at the pair looking at him.

“Might as well sit down, boys.”

And they do.

Dean waits about as long as it takes for Castiel to get his ass in the seat where it belongs before he blurts out, “What’s all this about, Bobby.”

“Just wanted to make sure we’re not gonna run into any surprises out there tonight. Gotta say, I wasn’t expecting a fight the last go around, even though you two have been at each other’s throats since Castiel here joined the team.” Bobby relaxes. Leans back in his chair. “Figured I’d give you both the chance to reassure me that everything is just sunshine and roses so we can get on with it all. So, be honest, do I need to put you two in separate corners? Or is this ‘thing’ gonna work itself out?”

The fact that Castiel immediately speaks for the both of them should be disconcerting. Somehow, it isn’t. Somehow it’s fairly close to what Dean was getting ready to say.

“The last game was an anomaly. It won’t happen again, I can assure you.”

And that was the last of it. Bobby had given them each a stern, appraising look, and then dismissed them both to the locker room.

The game, well.

Let’s just say the Orioles didn’t gift wrap it.

Dean ends up in the bullpen for most of the night, because Rufus is the next starting pitcher in the rotation, and even if the guy is nearing pension age he’s still a hell of a ball player. Dean is warming up with a few of the younger pitchers, so he misses the first couple of innings. The three runs that the Orioles manage to win in the third inning are a bit of a surprise, but Dean figures they can handle it. It’s only the third, they can still bring it back easily if they put the hammer down and start working for it. He does catch the cheers for Sam when he clears the dugout steps in the sixth inning, flashes that goofy grin he’s perfected, and waves.

Little brother always could work a crowd.

And, just like magic, the girls that buy out the entire row behind home plate start trying to get the pitcher’s attention by waving their arms, and hollering. Dean’s immune to it by now, but maybe the rookie pitcher isn’t. Maybe it works to Sam’s advantage, maybe it doesn’t.

Either way Sam ends up grounding a ball, and booking it to first base.

Castiel is next up to bat.

Dean can’t remember if he’s ever actually watched the guy go through the motions before he steps in the batters box but it doesn’t appear he has because Cas just looks so… _different_.

So collected. Professional. This isn’t the same guy that played and joked and gently tussled with the kids at Ember field. This is the cool, reserved catcher ESPN loves to talk about and break apart.

The idle chatter that’s been passed back and forth in the bullpen quiets down. It’s easy to watch Cas fix his gloves with quick, sure movements, and pick up the bat. It’s second nature to analyze the way he steps into the box, and shifts his weight, just so, to catch the pitcher’s attention as he leans too far forward. Dean quits working through the warm-up pitches to stare, because he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Cas isn’t this stupid.

Cas can’t be baiting this pitcher right now. _Deliberately._

Dean stretches his hands over his head, and sees the exact second Sam catches on and decides to make a break for second base. He checks the second baseman to see if he’s noticed, but the other team is completely focused on Castiel right now and figuring out his strategy, whatever that may be.

Sam on first and Victor on third is just background noise at this point.

The pitcher winds up, and sends Castiel a fastball.

Dean catches the curve of Cas’s smirk before he swings as hard as he can. His whole body twists, more textbook technique but gorgeous all the same, and then the ball is flying in the opposite direction. The announcers are babbling and the crowd is getting to their feet to watch.

Victor is already almost home. Sam is rounding second base and taking off for third. Castiel is starting for first.

The outfielders are all trying to gauge whether or not the ball is a homer, or not. Trying to decide whether they’re going to need to make a jump for it, or not.

It’s not a homer, not for Castiel. The right fielder gets to the ball right after it hits the ground, and throws it hard to third.

But that play was fucking genius, and Dean is one hundred percent sure Castiel planned that entire scenario before he even stepped on the plate.

Which is pretty damn impressive.

Sam is already clapping Victor on the back and grinning on his way to the dugout. Castiel is standing with one foot on first base, and wiping at his face with his forearm like he does this sort of thing all the time.

Cas never gets the chance to make it off first base. The Orioles pitching coach calls time, and the little pow-wow on the mound swaps the starting pitcher for the relief.

He strikes out Garth and Andy within ten minutes, but the damage is done. The Kites are catching up, and it’s only a matter of time until the tide turns in their favor. Once they pick up momentum, they’re a force to be reckoned. Bobby calls the bullpen to tell Dean to get his ass on the mound right after Garth swings at a particularly nice curve.

He tells Dean not to fuck it up this time.

Which is pretty much how they’ve wound up here, alone in the locker room, staring at each other.

“You listened to me.” Cas breathes. Like it’s unfathomable that Dean took his advice, and then followed it. Like it’s a damn miracle or a revelation or something.

Like Cas never expected his plan to actually work, but it did, and _now of all times_ he’s unsure of himself.

Dean swallows, because the guy is standing way too close for comfort,  _again_ , and then watches as Castiel tracks the movement. It feels predatory. Like Cas might eat him alive if he doesn’t answer. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

Dean thinks they both know why he listened in the first place, but they don’t need to talk about it. Not really.

“Huh.” Cas backs up a step, a whole _friggin’_  step, and tilts his head. “I have a friend."

Dean can’t let that one pass him by. “Dude, congrats. Would you like a medal or a plaque to commemorate your stellar accomplishment?”

Castiel has the grace to roll his eyes with his body while crossing his arms over his chest. It’s kinda cool. “Jackass. I know a knuckleballer that would be willing to train with you. He’s an expert, of sorts.”

“Cas, man, I don’t know. It’s one thing to throw a ball like that once in a blue moon and take down a hitter that doesn’t see it coming, but as a regular pitch?” Dean shakes his head. “It’s too erratic. Besides, what would Bobby say? Hell, what would Ellen think about the change up mid-season?”

“It’s a solid pitch that very few can pull off well. You are one of the few. You just won a game using that pitch. I don’t see the issue.”

And now it’s Dean’s turn to take a step closer to Cas. “Pitchers that use that ball are rare, Cas. They’re one in a thousand. A million, even. I’m not one of them. The only reason I even considered using it tonight was because you were willing to take a hit for Sammy.  _That’s it._ ”

Any other catcher would let it go, because Dean  _said_  to let it go. Because Dean is the pitcher, and this is how it goes. Except, Cas knows better, and he isn’t afraid to call Dean out. “Bullshit.”

“Cas-”

“Do you want to know  _why_  it’s bullshit, or are you just going to talk over me?” Dean shuts his mouth mid-sentence and the silence must be enough of a go-ahead because Cas just starts in again. “I could name every pitcher that used a knuckleball regularly in the their repertoire in Major League history, Dean. I know that it’s a league of it’s own. I’m aware that coaches don’t look kindly on the idea of a pitcher transforming the way he plays in the middle of a season. I know that everyone on the team will think that you’ve lost your mind. I’m  _asking_  you,” Cas pauses, suddenly unsure again, and sets a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “To trust me on this. I know you, and I know you could be good at this. Incredible, if you dedicated yourself to it. It’s a risk, but a calculated one."

And Dean can’t really refuse when the last gamble he took with Cas paid off so well, can he?


	6. You're coming with me.

Castiel corners him at the stupid gala/ball/dinner/charity thing he agreed to attend months ago to benefit someone’s something or other.

Dean can’t really call up the details, it’s been a stressful week, okay?

He’s managed to dress himself, tie and everything, get to the designated place on time, and he even signed a few things the director asked for. He mingled, for god’s sake. As far as Dean’s concerned he can spend the rest of the evening sampling the free drinks, and smiling at the pretty women scattered around the room. The bar is small and secluded and it’s perfectly quiet.

Until Cas tracks him down.

He settles on the stool next to Dean’s and raises his hand for a drink. “I should have looked here first, but I assumed you would be with your brother.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not here.” Something about Jess’s family and an express trip to North Dakota. Sam didn’t want to talk about it, so Dean didn’t ask. He’ll call when he’s ready. He always does.

The bartender sets a beer in front of Cas and leaves. Cas takes a drink.

Dean definitely doesn’t watch the line of his throat work as he pulls the beer into his mouth and swallows. He doesn’t catch a whiff of the dude’s cologne because they’re sitting so close, shoulders and knees brushing against each other.

Maybe he’s had a few too many tonight. Things are getting fuzzy.

“Tomorrow. No practice?”

Dean nods, because they don’t have anything lined up for tomorrow. It’s Thursday, a rare day off that Dean would normally spend with Sam.

“Good. You’re coming with me.”

“Uhh, yeah, because that doesn’t sound ominous or anything. I’ll just hop in your car, Louise, and we’ll drive off the cliff together?”

“I was planning on allowing you to drive. I know you’re unusually fond of your car.” Cas takes another pull from his bottle. “Doesn’t that paint you as Thelma? I always thought she was the character who ultimately drove them over the cliff.”

Dean shakes his head, because he doesn’t actually remember, and changes the subject. “Where are we going? Gotta say I always did want to see the Grand Canyon, but not from the inside. Or the bottom.”

“Not far.”

Dean snorts into his glass.“That’s specific.”

Cas finishes his drink, and rises. Dean didn’t notice before, but Cas is decked out tonight. The jeans have been traded for dress pants. His shoes are close to brand new. Dean could see himself in the shine if he leaned over far enough. He’s wearing a black suit vest combo with a dark blue tie. The tack is silver, and it matches his cufflinks.

He looks like a million bucks. Suddenly, Dean is wishing he had been paying more attention to the team mate sitting next to him than the playful blonde in the red dress sitting across the room.

_Wait, what?_

“Earth to Dean. Come in, Dean. What are you even looking at?” Cas snaps his fingers, and Dean focuses on bright blue eyes again. “My place at eight. Do I need to write it on your forehead? How many drinks have you had?”

“I only had a couple.” Which is not a lie, Cas can even ask the barkeep. It’s three max. “I’m just tired. I’ll be fine.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

And the funny thing is, Dean shouldn’t be okay with that, but he is.

He throws an arm around Dean’s shoulders, slings Dean’s right arm around his waist, and graciously waves his way out of the building without a backwards glance. He forces Dean to hand his keys over in the parking lot, which incites a small scuffle in which Cas actually tries to reach for Dean’s pants pocket, and Dean almost falls on his ass.

Almost.

Dean finally hands them over just because he doesn’t want Castiel’s suit to get messy from screwing around in the parking lot, that would be a damn shame, and he lets Cas get behind the wheel of his baby. If only Sam could see him now. Putting the safety of his baby in the hands of a guy he’s known less than a year.

This is progress. “You scratch her, and they won’t find your body.” Well, kind of.

Cas revs the engine and _smirks_ , the bastard, when he shifts into drive. “You have good taste. I like this car.”

They end up at Cas’s hotel, which.. isn’t a bad thing. Dean volunteers to sleep on the couch, and Cas doesn’t argue with him like Sam would have. He does, however, bring out some spare blankets and forces Dean to drink a glass of water before he passes out.

The TV is still blaring in the other room when Dean finally falls asleep staring at the card table covered in catcher’s mitts.

It’s still on when Dean wakes up. Cas must have a grudge against peaceful sleep or something.

He isn’t sitting in the living area, and the bathroom light isn’t on, so Dean checks his watch, finds that it’s after six, and gets up to knock on his bedroom door.

It swings open, it wasn’t fully closed to begin with, but Cas is focused on the TV and the notebook he’s scribbling in. He doesn’t even look up when he asks Dean to get dressed and make coffee because he isn’t going to be late for this appointment.

They’re only ten minutes late, and that isn’t even Dean’s fault. He can’t control the morning traffic on a Thursday. It might be a good thing they’re late anyway.

Dean is leaning against the front bumper of his car, staring down Castiel’s ‘friend’, and he’s not pleased with what he’s watching.

Benny.

The dude’s name is _Benny_.

And Cas is acting like they’re best friends. He let’s Benny basically ruffle his hair affectionately and clap him on the shoulder, in the sorry excuse for a driveway that leads to a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Cas even _smiles_ at the guy.

He’s tall, and built, Dean will give him that much. His clothes are plain in an old fashioned sort of way. The black cap he’s wearing could be a hundred years old. The suspenders are seriously outdated. It’s like the guy got stuck in time a few centuries back and never pressed play again.

Dean never thought he would be jealous of a guy named Benny. But if the burning angry feeling in his chest is anything to go by, apparently he is.

“Hot wings. What’re you doing on my side of town? Thought you were in the big leagues with the Kites these days.”

And now the ‘friend’ has a nickname for Cas. Hot wings? _Really_?

“I am. I came to call in a favor.”

“Vancouver?”

“No, San Francisco.”

Benny sighs. “Is that why Dean Winchester is standing in my driveway glarin’ at me like I ran over his cat?”

“Yes.” Cas turns and gives Dean a disapproving look. Dean gives him one right back, because he hadn’t signed up for this sort of treatment, and it’s not even ten in morning yet. This is his day off, damn it.

“No, Cas let’s just-”

“ _Cas_?” Benny’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline as he whistles. “Oh, brother you don’t know what you’re tanglin' with, do you?”

“Would you two, please, _shut up_.”

Cas is looking to the sky for answers, like he’s not sure why he’s subjected himself to this sort of thing and put Benny and Dean in the same place for five minutes. Because obviously it was never going to end well. They’re too alike, too similar, to really get along. Unless someone nudges them together.

“Benny Lafitte, this is my current pitcher, Dean Winchester. Dean, this is Benny. We played together for the Angels.”

“Let’s skip to the point, feathers. What do you want.”

“I want you to teach him. Train him. Invite him into your elusive club of knuckleballers.”

“This arrogant pup?” Benny laughs. “You must be joking.”

Cas’s face says that, no, he really isn’t. He’s ten kinds of serious right now. Dean will admit that it’s intimidating. He hates being the subject of that thousand yard stare. Cas can be a scary motherfucker when he chooses.

“So. What’s it gonna be?”

Benny moves past Cas, to stand in front of Dean. At least he has a sense of personal boundaries, because he isn’t as close as Cas normally settles. He holds his hands out, palms up, twitches his fingers. “Alright, hotshot. Let’s see ‘em.”

Dean glances at Cas, but complies and sets his right hand, his pitching hand, in Benny’s. His whole career is in that hand. To let someone touch it, let alone hold it, isn’t something Dean does on a regular basis.

Benny immediately starts firing questions at Cas, who fires right back. Dean feels like a ping-pong ball being tossed back and forth. It’s weird to have your style and your grip discussed right in front of you. Typically, the coaches do this sort of thing behind closed doors, and then they come up with a plan that they’ve all agreed on. Normally, Dean never gets to hear the reasoning behind the training, he just does what he’s told.

“What’s his grip like?”

“Basic. Fingertips, and thumb to balance the pitch.”

“Hmm. How’s his spin?”

“Slight.”

Benny glances up to make sure he’s listening and then turns Dean’s hand over to begin studying it. “Knuckleballs are sorta like a last ditch effort. When your changeup just doesn’t surprise anybody anymore and your career could use a pick me up. You hit that point last season, but I’m willin’ to bet my boat that your coach doesn’t give two licks about that. He probably told you to work on your fastball or your curve. Those are great pitches. Great, but damn easy to call.” Benny runs a thumb along the back on his hand, and Dean shivers involuntarily. This is hitting pretty close to home. Too close. “You’re all about control, and brother let me tell you, with a knuckleball? There’s no such thing. You’re flying blind. Your only compass,” Benny drops Dean’s hand and jerks the same thumb behind him at Cas. “Is him.”

“I’m not seeing the upswing here.”

“They won’t see you comin’. It’s unpredictable, just like you want. Your hand is a good size for the grip you’ll need. And Cas, here, says you’ve got the stones to stick it to your higher ups. So, yeah, I’m in.”

“Where do we start?”

According to Benny, you start by relearning everything you learned previously. The grip you thought you had on the ball isn’t good enough. The technique you’ve always used? Not gonna work anymore. The spin you took years to perfect?

Trash.

Benny tears every pitch apart until Dean’s head is spinning. They spend the better part of a day just trying to decide if Dean needs Cas to pull the glove up to frame better, or if he’s fine where he’s at.

It’s all very technical.

It’s going to take him forever to get this pitch down the way Benny pictures it, and even then it’s just more of a vague plan of what it could be than what will actually happen.

Even the trainer isn’t sure what the end result will be, and isn’t that worrying? He can’t predict Dean’s knuckleball, because there isn’t anything to predict. It’s spin and curves and slowing everything down instead of speeding it up. It’s opposite everything Dean has ever attempted.

It’s downright _weird_.

Cas has taken to it like a fish to water. Dean can see the connection when Benny pitches to him. It’s like slipping into a pair of old shoes. Cas angles his glove differently to account for his height and the drift of the ball and the pair fits together. The puzzle pieces click. Cas is enjoying himself. Enjoying the game by teasing Benny and tossing the ball back in an arc that’s too high, or too low. What they have seems easy.

if Dean wasn’t jealous before, he definitely is now.

Dean gets back in the driver’s seat feeling mixed up. Like someone grabbed all of his best laid plans and shook them like a snowglobe until they fell down around him. He hesitates to even put the key in the ignition, but then Cas is opening his door and climbing in.

He’s on the verge of  _pouting_. His lower lip juts out and that is not adorable in any way shape or form. “I thought it was my turn to drive again.”

And Dean laughs and laughs.


	7. You're ready?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who has read, given kudos, commented, bookmarked, etc. thanks so much you guys are awesome. i'm so glad you're enjoying the story! :)))

Cas has ordered a gag order.

They’re not telling Bobby, the coaches, or anyone else about The Plan. Sam is in, but only because Dean insisted he had a head’s up before the shit hit the fan. During normal practice Dean works on his fastball and his curve like his new coach wants. More like threatened.

The guy, Alastair, keeps hinting about other pitchers moving up to the starting position. He’s dancing around the idea of setting Dean to relief status permanently.

Unfortunately for the coach, Dean isn’t about to slip into an early, forced retirement, that would be bullshit, and Cas is around.

He isn’t going to go quietly. No one is pushing him out of the game until he’s had his day with Sam in the World Series. Dean doesn’t care how long it takes, he’s not leaving until his little brother gets a shot at a Series. If Cas and Benny think that this can save him, then he’s willing to try. And that gets him, and the coach, through pre-game practice unscathed.

Maybe taking on extra practices with Benny and Cas isn’t the smartest thing to do but it’s the best option he has. It means even more time around Cas.

He’s still trying to figure out if that’s a good thing, or a very bad thing.

Dean throws himself into it during the first week. He spends hours on his own at Ember field trying to get his grip on the ball just right. Trying to fit his fingers to the red seams in different variations, different styles.. Attempting to recreate Benny’s careful, precise, forms by memory, until he finds one that is comfortable. One that suits him. He slips into it like a new pair of shoes. Like it needs to be broken and worn a few hundred times before it can feel right.

It’s more trial and error than anything else.

Pitch after pitch critiqued by Cas. Throw after throw analyzed and watched and discussed until Dean is ready to walk away.

“No, Dean,” Cas stands and shakes his head after what must be Dean’s millionth attempt. “It’s all wrong. Your form is...”

“Fucked?” Benny offers from his lawn chair. A long-neck bottle dangles from his left hand as he half-watches the proceedings, half day dreams.

Cas tosses the ball once, catches it, and uses that hand to point at Benny as he nods solemnly. “In a word, yes.”

And here Dean thought he was just getting the hang of this.

“This is a waste of time.” Seriously. Nothing he does is right, or good enough. Maybe Sam would be better off without him. He could probably end up on the Yankee’s roster if Dean wasn’t dragging him down.

Cas crosses the distance between them and puts the ball in Dean’s open glove. “Just shut your eyes, shut your mouth, and listen. Do you think you can follow those instructions?”

“I’m not bad at directions.” Dean grumbles as he complies.

“You are the definition of ‘bad at directions’. You bend the rules until they break. You do the opposite of whatever I ask. Now, hush.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but obeys.

There is the sound of something solid hitting the dirt nearby, and then the heat of Cas is directly in front of him. It’s encompassing. The world is black and quiet except for the crickets and the hum of the spotlight directed at the patch of grass they’ve used as their makeshift field, not far from the cabin.

“Begin.”

Dean stands stock still for a few more seconds because, whoa, that was Cas basically breathing an order at him. And this has crossed the tentative line of professionalism a mile ago. He hesitates two beats too long, and then there is a hand at the back of his head.

Smacking him.

“Ow.” The hand that isn’t holding the ball flies to the back of his head and he glares. “Damn it, Cas. What the hell was that for.”

“You need to focus.”

Dean wants to strangle him. Bare-handed.

But he regains his composure, just to save face because now Benny is standing on the field, leaning forward, actually interested in the goings-on like he wasn’t before. Like he’s curious about what Cas is doing.

If Cas wants him to obey, that’s just fine.

Two can play the close proximity game.

He closes his eyes, and tries to turn his body the way he normally would, as if he was about to pitch towards home plate. But Cas sets steady hands on his shoulders and Dean stops.

Waits for instruction.

Cas removes his hands and takes a tiny step backwards, the heat recedes slightly as Cas anticipates Dean’s next move. “Pull up.”

Dean moves both hands to meet each other in front of him automatically in the ready position. His fingers shift on the ball until he has the seams held in just the right points with his fingertips. It’s a difficult grip, but it’s not impossible. Dean has adopted Benny’s style as his own. His index and ring finger curling up and over the ball, while his thumb and pinky strive for balance.

“You’re acting as if this is a completely different pitch. Don’t. We want everyone to believe you’re pitching a fastball as usual. We want the element of surprise.” Cas grabs his elbows and pushes just a bit until his form is acceptable. Until his glove is more in tune with the line of his body. “There. Now,” His hands wander from Dean’s arms, to rest on the wings of his shoulders, and Cas must be directly behind him now. His fingers rub and press gently against the tense muscles. “Relax. Your stance should be more limp, less rigid. You don’t require as much force. Good. Much better, Dean.”

Dean is having a real tough time focusing on the pitch at this exact moment. But he stands, poised, silent, and waits for further instruction.

“Balance.”

Dean’s left leg pulls up, and his glove hand moves accordingly, pulls toward the right side slightly as if his wrist is attached to his knee. Like he’s some sick kind of puppet and Cas is holding the strings.

This is like a blind run through of every drill he’s ever encountered with coaches in little league and the minors. With his Dad breathing down his neck from five feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for Dean to fuck up and upend the glass of water sitting on the top of his thigh. One wobble, one slight waver and it would all be over. Once the glass or the coin or whatever is on the ground, the practice is over.

An hour in this position is probably a form of torture in some countries. Two was the usual Winchester Special Warm-up. Add in the sun and the heat and the humidity, and, well, it’s more than warm. Dean hates standing like this. Hates holding this position. It brings everything back around. He wants to be on the other side of this pitch. On the down swing, the follow through.

Suddenly Cas is in front of him again, one hand wrapped around the back of his left knee almost in a dancer’s hold, and the glass would have fallen if it was there to fall. Cas could probably tilt him backwards in this angle, his fingers are just shy of digging in painfully. His hip is just brushing the inside of Dean’s thigh, and holy shit he’s close. Dean’s heart rate skyrockets, and Cas must be able to hear it. There’s barely any space between them now. “Perfect,” Cas sighs, and then his grip loosens as he moves away. Dean barely stays in place, his instincts are screaming to chase the warmth, to chase after Cas, but this is hardly the time or the place. So, he waits, again, until Cas calls from several feet away. “Now, pitch.”

And he does.

Dean doesn’t know what he’s throwing at, or who, but he throws anyway. He winds up as best as he can and throws the ball in whatever position Cas faced him in and he let’s go with his eyes closed.

Which is a weird feeling. So weird he almost falls on his face, ass over tea kettle, before he opens his eyes to find Benny holding the ball in Cas’s glove and grinning.

“I think you got it, brother.”

***

It’s been two weeks, ten trips, and two games, since that first day out at Benny’s cabin, and this week Dean’s finally got it.

This week Dean is the starting pitcher.

His pitch is finally up to snuff. His grip is improved, the curve is unpredictable enough to make any batter question whether to swing or to hold back. Benny has fondly nicknamed him ‘Swerve’ for the slight wobble that happens before the ball reaches home plate. It’s enough to confuse anyone who isn’t intimately familiar with the way Dean is pitching now. He’s pretty sure Cas could catch his knuckleball with his own eyes closed. He’s only dropped it once and he cursed like a sailor when it happened, and made Dean pitch for an extra hour that night.

But he thinks they’ve got it now. They’re synced up. Benny says they’re bonded like a pitcher and a catcher should be, that you can see it in the way they walk on the field together, or get in the car. He claims that he knew they were solid after Cas had handed over the ketchup before Dean had even wanted it, and neither man had said a word. Dean thinks you could write that off as living on top of each other for a few months, but Benny generally knows what he’s talking about so Dean isn’t about to argue. They’re not just pitcher and catcher anymore. They’re The Battery. Their own unit.

So this week, the home game against the Rangers, Cas is giving him the green light.

And that is how they end up making out in the secluded closet twenty minutes before the game is scheduled to start. Dean was so thrilled he couldn’t help taking Cas’s face in his hands and kissing him full on the mouth.

It had started as a joke. Honest to God.

Until it wasn’t a joke. Until Dean was making this noise that required a hand over his mouth because the entire team was getting changed in the next room.

“We really-” Cas ducks down and nips at Dean’s throat. “Shouldn’t do this.”

Which is funny, because Castiel is the one pressing Dean against the door in the Kite’s warmup room closet like a crazed teenager with a flimsy excuse; ‘for luck’, Cas had said. Like they’re in high school or something. Can’t even make it back to the car. Not that Dean is complaining. Jesus. Why would he complain when Cas’s hands are holding his hips in place like that?

Nothing comes to mind, to be honest.

“Dude.” Cas is completely contradicting the fact that he’s ghosting one hand over Dean’s belt buckle, like he’s obviously thinking about it, and biting at his collarbone. “Not really making your point, here.”

Cas draws up, takes a step back, and breathes in through his nose. “Regulations state that-”

Dean huffs a laugh and closes the space between them again because he can’t be serious. Not when his voice is wrecked like that. Not when his hands haven’t moved an inch. Dean knows that it’s usually a shit idea to get involved with anyone on the team, let alone Cas. He knows better, really. Dean isn’t stupid.

He just doesn’t care. Not when Cas is flushed and ruined and willing under his hands. Who gives a damn what the rest of the team thinks? What the league rules are? “Don’t care what the books say, Cas.”

“This is a very public place.”

He flips them, because Cas should be pressed against the lockers for a few minutes. Because Dean wants a chance to look at him, shirtless, without thirty pairs of eyes in the same room. Without Sam breathing down his neck about that pitch, or, that play. Dean just wants to soak in it. To drink it in before they have to go out there, and be those people on camera. In front of thousands.

“We need to be on the field in ten minutes.” Cas warns as Dean pulls at the top buttons on his uniform shirt.

Cas is tan, which, yeah, not surprising considering how much sun they both see during the summer. The team practically lives outside most days when the weather is nice. It makes sense. Of course it does.

The tattoos are a surprise.

Cas has a scar right above his heart. It looks as if something has speared his collarbone.. Dean’s hand drifts there experimentally. It’s a deep, jagged line. ‘Wildcats’ has been penned in red script, the color of the string that holds a ball together. There’s a date along the edge from three years ago.

“Shattered bat at the end of my first season.” Cas says quietly.

“Huh.”

The scar is interesting, something to consider, but it’s nothing compared to the edges of the wings spread across his back and his shoulders. The feathers start out small and then fan out. The feathers stretch from the tops of his shoulders beyond the waistband. They’re enormous. Gorgeous hues of blue and green and black mixed together. Castiel’s shirt is still tucked into the back of his pants, so Dean doesn’t know how far they reach.

But, fuck, wouldn’t Dean like to be able to find out.

Dean might be staring, but an explanation is apparently not forthcoming. Cas is looking past Dean’s shoulder at the door, stoically.

And just like that the tone of this, whatever it is, shifts. It’s not a rushed fumble in the dark anymore. When Dean leans in again it’s not as harsh as it was before. It’s hushed when he noses under Cas’s ear, and whispers, “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere.” Cas turns his head to press their lips together. He tips his head to allow Dean better access and swipes his tongue across his bottom lip playfully. He laughs softly when their noses bump, when he knocks Dean’s cap off to run careful hands through his hair. “I’m here.”

Dean smiles back and chases the laugh back to it’s source. He traces teeth with his tongue, tasting now, instead of nipping. Cas’s hands are combing through his hair gently. They’ve given up push-pulling back and forth, to align themselves; thighs and knees knocking softly, metal belt buckles clinking against each other occasionally.

They’re riding the high of adrenaline before a game. Dean’s hands are shaky like they always are this close to stepping on the field when he fixes the buttons into place, and straightens Cas’s collar. He wishes they could hide here forever, but Sam is probably hunting for him in the locker rooms already. Best not to upset the guy before the game even starts.

“You’re ready?” Cas frowns as he adjusts the amulet around Dean’s neck, and then reaches for the doorknob. He quickly pecks Dean on the lips one more time, and then withdraws for good.

Dean nods, and then they’re walking out of the closet together into an empty hallway. It’s a quick walk from the locker rooms to the dugout. With Cas next to him, Dean feels a little more confident. Reassured.

“So, did I tell you I’m gonna be an uncle?”


	8. You don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's late sunshines !!!

The first inning is easy as pie.

Easier, actually.

Cas doesn’t even bother to signal. He grins this stupid smile behind the catcher’s mask, and flicks his fingers into numbers that don’t make any sense. Signs that don’t mean anything. He frames up right in the strike zone, his glove squared to give Dean a place to aim the ball.

And he let’s Dean pitch whatever the hell he feels like.

Dean can get behind that kind of trust. This being the first time they’ve tried this pitch, in a game, he’s sort of surprised Cas is letting him take the lead. It doesn’t stop him from stepping on the mound, and pulling up. Doesn’t stop him from smirking at Cas right after that first, flawless pitch. Or the second, or the third. And by now, people are starting to murmur. The dugout is full of people leaning over the edge to get a good look. The bullpen is coming to screeching halt as pitchers hang on the mesh divider between the field and the warm-up area. People are starting to talk, the stands are working their way up to a low rumble.

Especially when he ends up striking out the first three players to cross his path without a hit.

Which means Bobby, or anyone else on the team for that matter, can’t speak to him about the knuckleball he used primarily. Unspoken code dictates that no one should attempt to talk to the pitcher in play. It could mess up their headspace. Jeopardize their focus.

Or jinx the game, whatever suits your fancy.

It’s perfect, because the coaches and the manager, even the other pitchers are required to give Dean a wide berth until the game is over, or until the no hitter is broken. But there’s no such rule for Dean talking. He can choose to engage someone, or not. The team is at his beck and call. Ignore the pitcher unless he says otherwise, or acknowledges you.

So, he gathers some glares and open-mouthed stares as he makes his way to the bullpen. Bobby is frowning at him, corners of his mouth turned down at sharp angles.

Dean just smiles and works his hand in his pitching glove to wave at Sam and Cas as he leaves.

***

Bobby is pissed, to say the least.

He doesn’t care that the Kites murdered the Rangers. He doesn’t care that Dean pitched nine innings, and made his way into the hall of fame, all in one game. He doesn’t care that the critics are hailing this as the Kite’s turn-around, starring Dean as the comeback kid, and Cas as the quiet sidekick.

Bobby doesn't give a shit.

He’s called them, Cas and Dean, into his office to sit down and settle this, but Dean isn’t sitting, and he’s far from settled. He has his hands folded behind his back with military-like precision. He’s staring straight ahead, looking past the stadium outside of Bobby’s office window. The wide, bright smile from before when Cas had met him on the field after the game has vanished.

Dean had thrown his cap in the air, swept Cas off his feet, and into his arms. Joy had been written all over his face. Nine innings of complete, utter silence, and then Dean was fervently whispering in his ear. _We did it. You and me_. And, hoarser, _thank you, **thank you**_. All Cas could do was hug him tighter, thread a hand through his hair, and smile at the cameras trained on them from every angle as Sam and the rest of the team dumped a cooler of ice water over their heads and ran off the field. Dean had spluttered and coughed and laughed while running after Sammy, like he was having the time of his life. Sam managed a quick lap around the bases before Dean caught up with him and shoved ice cubes down the back of his uniform shirt.

It’s a stark contrast to the man standing in front of the desk.

“What in blue blazes were you thinking?!” Bobby yells. “A change-up mid-season? You don’t get to make that kind of decision, not on your own. And it’s not just me that you have to worry about. I have people on my back too, Dean, I have to answer to the owner. How do you think he’s going to take this?” Bobby shakes his head, quiets a little. “Don’t you have any idea what I had to do to keep you on this team, and try to get Sam’s contract finalized?”

Cas doesn’t have any idea, but by the way Dean flinches, he must know exactly what Bobby’s getting at. Loud and clear.

“Yes, sir.”

Bobby sighs and shuffles the papers on his desk briefly, avoiding Dean’s eyes.“You’re practically unmarketable now. Nobody trusts a knuckleballer. If Sam gets a better deal next season, which he will, they won’t take you.”

Cas is good at reading people, it’s his job, he has to be, but with Dean everything is different. Normal subtle cues are like screaming flares to Cas. The stance he was in doesn’t shift, but Cas knows the instant that Dean has something to say and holds it back. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice, three times before Dean swallows the words.

And says nothing.

Cas thinks about Benny and the Angels. He rifles through his stats and figures until he has an answer. One that Dean isn’t about to give. Dean has done his job. He’s pitched beautifully, won the game, earned a record.

He doesn’t deserve this.

“As Dean says. Bullshit.”

Bobby and Dean both whip around to stare at Cas, who is just now speaking for the first time since this meeting started. He’s settled in the chair, hands in his lap.

“Excuse me?” Bobby says incredulously.

“Bullshit. Was I not clear?”

Dean lets out a breath and closes his eyes out of frustration before turning to face Cas. “Man, you can’t just-”

“Dean isn’t unmarketable. He’s just been marketed incorrectly.” Cas leans forward. “You’ve all been limiting him to curves and fastballs. Give him a little breathing room, and lo and behold, he excels. Imagine what the Yankees could do with him during the off-season with a serious coach. One that plays to his strengths instead of panhandling to satisfy every low ball pitcher you have. No, Dean is certainly marketable and if Crowley doesn’t like it, he can take his contract somewhere else next year.”

Dean gapes. His mouth opens and closes like a fish.

Cas rises from his chair, frowns at Dean, and pushes his mouth closed before turning to Bobby.  “Are we finished here?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, doesn’t expect to get one. They walk out of the office, Cas leading, Dean trailing behind, and when Cas reaches a hand back, Dean grabs it with his own and squeezes.

***

Sam insisted on an after party, just a few of the guys together at his place to celebrate and raise hell.

Naturally most of the team shows up.

Jess was gracious enough to order enough pizza to feed an army, and set out paper plates and coasters. She’s gorgeous, even prettier than the wedding picture Dean has stuffed in his wallet. Cas wonders whether they will be gifted with a girl that is the spitting image of her mother. Cas fears for Dean, and Sam, if that’s the case.

When Jess opens the door, she looks at Cas like she hasn’t figured him out quite yet, but she’s working her way up to it. Like there’s something fishy about him but she can’t stick her finger on it.

It’s funny that she’s the only one to look at him like that, especially after his time in the Majors. Someone should have said something by now, he’s shocked they haven’t. At this point he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just waiting for the lightbulb to flicker to life and shine on his not-so-pretty past.

Just waiting for Dean to figure out just what he's gotten himself into, and then decide he's better off on his own.

But she invites him in, shows him the kitchen and the living room. Directs him to the living room, where most of the team has spread out on the sectional in various stages of yelling at the TV, or each other. Victor is arguing with Sam over the video games stashed in the corner bookshelf. Rufus is watching the news, and drinking his beer quietly next to Ash. His leg is propped up on the coffee table, and he’s yelling at Sam to pick something ‘awesome’. Sam seems to be trying to ignore him.

Dean isn’t in the living room, so Cas follows Jess back to the kitchen. Dean is hunched over the counter, beer in hand, pizza untouched. Garth and Andy are laughing at the table behind him about something.

He looks tired. Worn down instead of bolstered up by the party. His party.

Cas situates himself next to Dean, and then scoots closer. So close, that Dean’s bored, this-party-sucks face turns into a raised eyebrow.

“You’ve never heard of personal space, have you?”

“You weren’t complaining in the closet.”

Dean turns back towards the counter and raises his beer. There's a grin starting at the corner of his mouth. Cas is somewhat proud of himself for putting it there.  “Touche.”

“Why aren’t you..” Cas gestures towards the living room. “Mingling.”

“That’s not mingling. That’s yelling over Mariokart and spilling beer.”

“If you aren’t planning to socialize, we-”

Dean perks up. “Could go back to your place?”

Not exactly what Cas had in mind, but where’s the harm? Or foul? “Only if we hit a bar on the way.”

“I’ll do you one better.” Dean makes his way to the fridge, and grabs a full bottle of something amber colored. “Don’t even have to buy me dinner. I’m a cheap date.”

***

After escaping the party unnoticed, it’s easy enough to stumble back to Cas’s hotel room together, Dean’s arm draped over Cas’s shoulders. Cas’s arm slung around Dean’s waist. It’s a little harder to locate the room key, fumbling in the barely lit hallway through Cas’s pockets is an exercise in patience.

Dean finds he doesn’t have all that much to spare when Cas finally pushes the door open and lingers in the hall. It’s been used up between the barely there makeout session in the closet and the car ride over.

He ends up grabbing the lapel of his coat to drag him inside the room, and pining Cas against the door. Which isn’t bad, at first.

It’s pretty damn awesome if Dean is going to be honest about the whole thing.

Cas kisses like it’s the last one he’s ever going to get. He lingers and pushes his way past Dean’s lips as soon as Dean opens up. They barely have the lock turned, and Cas is angling a knee between Dean’s legs, looking to switch positions. Dean smiles to himself.

Somewhere between the door and the couch, it hits Dean that they’re actually going to do this. Well, maybe not do _that_ , but they’re definitely going to do _something_. An exciting thought all on it’s own, his breath hitches when Cas pushes him back against the sofa, and strips his jacket off, tossing it over the table with all of the gloves.

Dean’s a little more concerned with the clothes that are coming off than where they’re headed to. He leans against the back of the couch and folds his hands behind his head, enjoying the tease for what it’s worth.

“You weren’t yourself. Earlier. In Bobby’s office.” Cas takes his undershirt off one-handed. It ruffles his hair into something closer to adorable than sexy.

It doesn’t fit the question. Dean doesn’t want to talk about that fifteen minute in Bobby’s office. He doesn’t want to think about leaving Sam, or Sam leaving him for some hotshot team. Doesn’t want to think about the fact that he didn’t correct Cas when he stood up and actually argued against Bobby. Dean let Cas fight his fight, and it still doesn’t feel right. Like the scales are tipped, and not in Dean’s favor. Like he’s given a part of himself away that he can’t get back. “Can we talk about something else?” Like, maybe, finishing the strip tease and taking his pants off. “Cas, not now, okay?”

Cas squints at him for a few moments, assessing, before sighing and reaching for his belt.

***

This should probably be awkward. It should probably be uncomfortable.

But somehow it’s not.

Castiel gets up and heads to the bathroom, and Dean hears the water running briefly before he reappears.

And this is definitely going to be where the tables tilt towards weird. Cas is going to come back out and put his clothes on and say something trivial and dismissive like that was great, or see you at practice, and then they’ll go their separate ways.

...but they don’t.

Cas gets back into bed, which is something Dean always hopes for, but doesn’t usually receive after nights like this, and turns on his side. He pulls the sheets up to blanket them both, settles on his side facing Dean, and closes his eyes.

His hair is even more of a mess than usual, the silver chain of the necklace he usually wears is twisted and skewed on the pillow. One hand is tucked underneath the pillowcase, and the other, his right, the one he catches with, is slightly extended towards Dean. Palm up.

Dean should get up and take a shower. He should get out of bed. Absolutely.

He shouldn’t turn to face Cas, because watching someone sleep is creepy. He shouldn’t reach out to run a hand though black messy curls, because crossing the line of casual sex is dangerous. It’s full of landmines and bombs that are easily set off, especially when you work closely.

“I’m proud of you, you know.”

And that’s really not something Cas had to say, like, _ever_. Dean can’t help thinking about the first time they met. The first time they played ball together and Cas ended up storming off the field in quiet rage. Proud wasn’t ever something he thought he would hear from Cas, not in a serious note, anyway. They’ve come a long way in less than a year. Dean never thought they had a chance in hell, and here they are.

But he said it, and now he’s looking at Dean carefully. Softly. And Dean might possibly still sorta have a hand frozen in his hair because what does he say-

“You don’t.”

“Don’t?”

“You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to complicate, or label this. I could hear you thinking in the bathroom, Dean. Just kiss me, and go to sleep.”

Cas closes his eyes again and curls up a little closer. His hand reaches a little bit more across the space between them in the large bed. His face turns into Dean’s hand just a small amount. His breathing evens out.

Oh.

Cas wants him to stay.

Cas is _proud_.

Something clicks, and then it’s easy. It’s why didn’t we do this sooner. Dean leans forward, and presses a kiss to Cas’s forehead before tangling their fingers together under the sheets.

He sleeps like the dead.


	9. You didn't sign up for this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's late! how does an extra midweek update sound as a late fee? :)

Dean jerks awake and only remembers where he is when Cas makes an irritated noise next to him. Cas doesn’t wake, even though it sounds like World War III next door. He just rolls over and buries his head in his pillow.

Dean shakes his head, because it’s not likely that he’s going to be able to sleep with the screaming match on full volume. He sits up in bed, and scrubs a hand over his face before glancing at the alarm clock sitting on top of the TV.

Three in the morning.

He remembers Cas saying something about the newlyweds in the room next door on their trek up the stairs. Something about the way they giggled downstairs during breakfast together. They sat too close to each other and it made Cas want to puke his orange juice all over their waffles.

_Sickeningly sweet_ , that’s the phrase he had used.

“Not so sweet now, are you.” Dean grumbles as the shriller voice goes up another decibel. He’s starting to catch more than sounds now, actual words are making their way through the wall. Snatches of the conversation contaminating and staining both rooms instead of just the one. They’re more than angry, they’re  _shocked_. Dean knows the difference.

_“...never wanted kids!!!”_

_“You said-”_

_“Not everyone....big family..”_

Something fragile shatters against the neighboring wall and Dean burrows back in next to Cas, covering them both with the blankets. He slings an arm around Cas’s waist and buries his nose in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, right above the collar of his faded shirt. Cas murmurs something that could be questioning. His eyes blink open once. 

“Trouble in paradise." Dean whispers,"Go back to sleep, baby.”

Cas sighs and curls closer, holds Dean's hand between his a little tighter.

Dean breathes in sweet and soft linen and  _Cas,_  and falls asleep not long after Cas's breathing evens out to a steady beat. 

*******

The next time he wakes up, it’s significantly lighter outside, and Cas isn’t in bed anymore.

He’s standing by the window that looks over the road in jeans and his t-shirt with a cellphone to his ear. There's moisture clinging to his hair, and to the small of his back. He has this soft, fond smile that’s lighting up his entire face. Dean would kill to know who he’s talking to. Who settled that smile into his features. Who managed to get Cas’s nose to crinkle like that, when Dean hasn't managed it, yet.

Dean wants to know who Cas is saying  _‘_ _love you, too_ _’_ , to.

There's a million bad jokes to be made about it. Dean has  _your girlfriend calling?_  on the tip of his tongue. It's right in front of _Cas, cheating on me already?_

But then Dean’s phone is ringing, scattered and lost somewhere on the floor, and Cas is frowning at the pile of clothes. Trying to sort through sleeves and pant legs to find the pocket that Dean’s phone is hidden away in. He finally digs it out, triumphant, and squints at the screen. 

“It’s Sam.”

Of course it is.

Cas tosses it to the bed, across the room, and Dean catches it deftly. “Sam. Isn’t it a little early for you to be bothering me? I thought we agreed no phone calls until ten. At least.”

“Where are you?”

Sam sounds serious, like, life or death serious.  Dean drops the teasing immediately. “I’m with Cas. What’s up.”

“I’m at your apartment. You skipped out on the party last night, I thought you would be here. At  _home_.”

The emphasis on home isn’t lost on Dean. He knows what Sam means. Dean wasn’t where he should be. He was worried when he got there, and Dean  _wasn’t_.

“Well, uh,” Dean glances at Cas, who shrugs unhelpfully. Dean makes a face at him. “Sorry, Sam. I’m not there.”

Sam heaves a breath that crackles on the other end of the phone and Dean can feel the eye roll. “Obviously, or I would actually be in your apartment. Instead of calling you.”

“And we’re back to  _why_  you’re at my apartment on our off day, the morning after a game.”

Sam shoots right back. “Why are you with  _Cas_  on your off day?”

They’re going in circles. Cas is laughing at the one-sided conversation as he hands Dean a cup of coffee and turns back to the small kitchenette. It’s just from the cheap coffee maker in the room, but it tastes like Heaven.

Dean realizes he actually has a secret from Sam. After everything they’ve been through, Mom dying, Dad getting kicked out of the League, Sam leaving for college. After all of that, there hadn’t been any real secrets between them. Dean had shared everything. Had tried to gift all of his knowledge to his baby brother before he left.

There hadn’t been any time, or space, for secrets back then. Too close to know any better. Too close to have anything else. They’d been in each other’s pockets for, well, ever.

Even when Sam started hanging out with Jess, he asked Dean about dates and flowers. Silly shit.

But there’s something thrilling about this being a secret. About keeping it quiet, at least for the moment.

“That was a rhetorical question, Dean. I know you’re about as straight as your curveball.” Dean splutters his coffee all over Cas’s bedspread. Sam keeps on talking. “But that doesn’t mean you can go home with someone from the team. Isn’t that, I don’t know, risky?”

So much for secrets.

“Shut up. Maybe I just-”

“No! Oh god, don’t tell me about it.”

“ _Sam_.”

“That stunt you pulled yesterday is all over the news. Bobby called me.”

Dean shifts in bed to rest his back against the headboard and sips his coffee as Sam talks about what the stations are saying (nothing terrible, all speculation really), and what Bobby is worried about (backlash, understandable). Dean listens and interjects when Sam seems to want his opinion

During their little tit for tat, Cas has folded Dean’s clothes and set them on the bed. Now he’s going around the room packing stuff away in suitcases that he pulled out of the closet. Like he’s leaving.

Like he’s running.

Dean hangs up with Sam, arranging to meet at the Roadhouse for dinner, and stares at Cas.

 

"Going somewhere?"

"New York." Cas says offhandedly. Like he had assumed that Dean already knew that he lived in New York. Like Dean should have known. 

And now it's sort of awkward because Cas is packing, and Dean is very obviously in the way of said packing and he should just put his clothes on and get out of Cas's hair. The awkwardness from last night has transferred to this morning. It didn't disappear it was just put on hold.

Dean starts dressing, aiming for casual. "So. Guess you weren't kidding about the Yankees the other day, were you?"

"No, of course not." Cas finishes zipping the small duffle bag and tosses it towards the door. "They're a great team. Mostly because they have the money required to buy the best players, but a great team nonetheless."

"Did you play?"

"No, no." A hint of a smile passes across Cas's features, and then vanishes, quick as it came. "It's complicated."

Dean turns away from his boots and shrugs. "I've got time."

"I don't. And," Cas shakes his head. "You shouldn't. Not right now, anyway."

"But, Cas-"

"You didn't sign up for this." Cas interjects. "Whatever you think I'm going to tell you, this isn't it. Last night I told you that we didn't have to complicate this, and we still don't. Just kiss me goodbye, and let it go for now. Dean, _please_."

Dean wants to help. He wants to listen and understand. He wants to prove that their trust runs both ways. That what they have between them isn't just casual. It doesn't  _have_  to be. 

But Cas isn't ready for that yet. 

He obviously thinks that whatever it is, whatever he's hiding, is going to either scare Dean away, or turn him off. Turn him away. 

It's intriguing. Dean couldn't look away if he tried. 

"Okay, yeah." Dean grabs his jacket. Fishes his keys out and toys with them before grabbing Cas's suitcase. "But I'm not kissing you until you're ready to board."


	10. You're coming back, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> midweek update, as promised! feel free to hold off on the pitchforks until saturday :P  
> also there's some mentions of past cas x anna, if that freaks you out you might want to skip this chapter :)

Dean is true to his word.

  
He drives Cas to the airport. He hangs out as Cas checks his luggage in and gets his ticket settled.

He sits and waits, quietly, if a little fidgety when the plane comes around to be visible through the large windows. An hour and a half, because the flight is delayed due to refueling complications or something.

Dean stays the entire time.

Not that Cas is completely surprised, he isn’t. When Dean says he is going to do something, he does it. There is no can’t, only won’t.

And, true to his word, when his flight is called, and Cas stands, Dean cups his cheek with one hand, and brushes a quick kiss across his lips before hugging him tightly.

They both have hats and sunglasses on anyway. Dean with his ridiculous aviators drawn low enough so that Cas can see his eyes as he smiles. His hat is backwards, and a little tuft of hair is poking out. It’s adorable. Cas wants to reach up and fix it.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know why this feels so easy.

  
“You’re coming back, right?” Dean’s voice only wavers a bit, but his smile never falters. Cas knows exactly what he’s trying to say. They only have a few days until practice starts again. Until they start the whole process again, and then try to climb their way to the top.

Practice is three days away, it’s plenty of time to get to New York and back. It’s just enough time to do what he needs to. He nods. “Of course I am.”

***

His flight is perfect. Cas touches down at La Guardia exactly when he’s supposed to (adding in the original delay, of course). He gathers his luggage, all in one piece, and there’s limited traffic in the airport itself. It’s calm.

His rental, not so much. It’s a bright cherry red little thing with too much spunk for it’s own good.

Cas sort of misses the sharp, black car that he’s been chauffeured in over the last few weeks. The low rumble of the engine. He misses the leather seats and Dean’s ridiculous cassette tapes.

Honestly, who still listens to those?

And it hasn’t even been a full twenty four hours and he’s already waxing poetic about a car, and a man he’s barely skimmed the surface of.

Cas curses himself internally.

“Pull it together, Novak.”

The ridiculous Honda isn’t going to drive itself.

***

Cas walks across the school grounds to the building he’s sure he needs. It’s mid afternoon. Classes are just letting out, and kids are starting to spill out of the doors.

There’s a boy sitting outside the offices in one of the green hard-plastic chairs. His name is Luke.

His hair is black, and wild. His eyes focused on the tile floor. He’s just barely twelve, Cas knows. He’s also supposed to be wearing glasses. His tie shouldn’t be loosened or backwards, but it is.

Cas guesses that’s probably a big part of the reason they’re here. Part of the reason that Luke looks at him with pleading eyes, but says nothing.

After checking in with her, the secretary ushers them both into the headmistresses’ office with little preamble. They’re sitting in hardwood chairs this time. Cas grips the arm with his right hand until his knuckles turn white. This is not his field, he doesn’t know all of the rules. He doesn’t know all of the players, or the odds.

He’s uncomfortable, and unfit for this.

Luke was in a fight, apparently. He started an altercation with some of the older boys in the junior class in the hallway. One of them ended up in the nurse’s office with a broken nose, a black eye, and a cracked rib. To hear it described like that makes Luke sound like an animal. Cas knows better than that, some pieces of the story must be missing.

Being that the school has a very strict no fighting policy, the headmistress wants to know why Luke decided to fight three boys twice his size. She wants to know what prompted this bright, intelligent young man to put this sort of thing on his record. This could ruin his chances at some colleges that are on the lookout for exactly this sort of thing, and shouldn’t he know better?

Luke is closed mouthed for the most part about the incident. The only thing he’ll say about why he did it is that, “He deserved it.”

Cas doesn’t know if he should be proud, or exasperated by the entire proceeding.

Luke ends up suspended from class for the rest of the week. He doesn’t even blink at the punishment, and they’re whisked out of the office just as quickly as they were ushered in.

Luke sets off down the hallway immediately, shouldering his backpack. Cas wonders when he grew up so much. When he decided to put away childish things, like hugging, in favor of making a fist and breaking another boy’s nose. God help him, he misses Anna at times like this with an ache that never dies. She always knew just what to say to Luke.

Cas feels lost for the thousandth time in six years, even though he knows exactly where he’s headed.

The door leading to Mrs. Teeple’s room is covered in blue and pink stars with names written in black marker, and tons of glitter. Luke leans against the small lockers on the other side and makes this let’s get on with it face.

Cas pushes the door open and her red hair is the first thing he sees.

She’s sitting in front of an easel by the window, her hands and arms coated in different color paints. Her bright hair is mostly tucked into a french braid and her smile is wide and open. Her eyes are lit up with excitement.

She’s so happy, Cas just stands there, watching patiently for a few minutes until she catches sight of him and abandons her post.

“Look, Daddy!!”

His grin matches hers almost immediately. At least one of them hasn’t lost the capacity for childish things. For paint hugs and smiles. “I see, sweetheart. Very nice.” He laces his fingers through her smaller ones and leads her towards the sinks. “Come on, Max. Let’s get cleaned up so we can take your brother home.”

Luke gently teases her about the painting on the ride home, and the green that managed to get stuck in her hair. Max teases right back about Luke being in trouble. It quickly becomes apparent that Luke’s foul mood and silence is only directed towards Cas.

As frustrated as he is, he can’t be angry about his kids laughing softly in the backseat.

Balthazar is waiting with the door wide open when they pull into the driveway. He’s leaning against the doorjamb, when Max tackles his legs with all of her six-year-old strength and announces, “Uncle Balthazar!!”

Balthazar leans down to hug her and ushers her through the door. Luke follows her in with a quick murmur.

“Flight went well, I take it?” Cas nods and drops his duffle bag just inside the doorway. Balthazar lifts Max’s backpack to hang on the hook on the other side of the door. Meanwhile, Luke seems to think that if he creeps up the staircase slow enough, Cas isn’t going to notice, or call him on it.

“Lucas Mark if you think we’re not going to talk about what happened in school today, then you would be sadly mistaken. My office, ten minutes.”

Luke turns back on the stairs again, rolls his eyes and mutters, “Whatever.”

Cas thinks about what will happen to them in a year when Luke turns into a teenager, and this is old hat.

“A fight, eh? Any ideas?”

“He won’t say.”

“A bully, maybe.” Balthazar muses as they walk to the kitchen together. “Someone has been picking on Max, I believe. An older boy.”

That could be it, but Cas isn’t sure. He’s at somewhat of a loss when his phone rings. He has six minutes left to get to his office on time. The caller ID tells him that it’s Dean, which is odd. Cas frowns at the phone before dismissing the call. He’s not sure what he would even say to Dean at this point.

“That must be lover boy.”

Cas looks up from the screen to catch Balthazar’s sad grin. “I don’t-”

“Oh, yes you do.” Balthazar shakes his head. “You’re too easy to read, Cassie. You wear your heart on your sleeve it’s just a matter of understanding it. How long did you pine after Anna before she gave you the time of day?”

Max is rifling through the toy chest for something. She’s the spitting image of Anna. Cas knows it isn’t fair that he always looks to Max when someone brings her up. It’s reflex. “Too long.”

“You’ve been pining after her memory for even longer. Maybe it’s time to let it go.”

Balthazar is his only sibling, and it’s only by law, but he’s only ever wanted the best for the kids. And for Cas.

“Maybe.” Cas admits as he climbs the stairs, but it’s only half-hearted. He’s not sure he wants anything more than what he has right now.

He’s not sure he can handle anything more.


	11. You're pretty cool, for an old guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you seemed to like the twist, i'm glad! have an early chapter :)

Cas is different when he steps off the plane.

Dean’s only received two text messages from him, even though he must have called a dozen times and left two or three messages. The day before practice started again, Cas texted back that he did, in fact, need a ride home from the airport, and he would be arriving at around ten the next night.

He hadn’t answered any of Dean’s questions. He hadn’t tried to explain what was happening, or what was wrong.

Because something must have been wrong for Cas to cut off contact like that.

Cas gives him this sort of half-smile when he says, “Hello, Dean.”

It’s soft, and fond, and maybe a little tired, but Dean takes it and releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, because the guy actually came back. Just like he said he would.

“Hey, Cas. Nice flight?”

Cas shrugs. “Nice enough.”

It’s not a real answer, but Dean takes it, and when Cas invites him upstairs for a drink, he takes that, too.

***

Practice isn’t their problem. Dean flies through the drills they’ve been using at Benny’s. Cas has effectively scared all of the coaches away from the small portion of the field they’ve claimed for their own.

And they’re great on their own, together. It’s a far cry from what they used to be. Dean could pitch with his eyes closed if he wanted to. With Cas there to catch, or call out to him. He slightly adjusts his grip with careful hands, or flicks the brim of his hat, teasingly, grinning, before heading back to the plate. They work on the angle of the curve. Cas says it’s too erratic sometimes. Dean agrees. Dean _listens_.

So, no, practice isn’t a problem. Far from it, in fact.

The phone call afterwards is.

Cas runs off to the showers like he always does, but his duffle is sitting on the bench next to Dean’s locker. Dean’s pulling a shirt over his head, because foolishly he agreed to take Cas out to a late lunch/early dinner, and apparently that calls for something nicer than a stained undershirt. He’s buttoning up his black dress shirt when he first starts to hear it, and he looks around for Cas, but doesn’t find him. He must still be in the shower.

And his cell phone is ringing.

If it was just the once, Dean would have let it go to voicemail rather than rifle through Cas’s dirty socks and whatever else he’s got jammed in the bag. But three times is a little excessive.

So the fourth time the ringer starts up, he answers.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause, and then a young voice comes across the line. “Who is this?”

Dean looks at the screen for a quick second, and frowns. The name on the ID is unfamiliar. “This is Dean Winchester. Who is this.”

“Oh. You’re that hothead pitcher Dad’s working with.” There’s a sigh from the other end of the line. “You’re pretty cool, for an old guy. Can I talk to him, now?”

Dean balks. There’s a bunch of things wrong with that sentence. The biggest one is _Dad_. Although a close second is _old_. Dean is not old, not even close. Rufus is old. Bobby is old. Dean is… middle aged, if that. “I’m not-.. you, who are you, again?”

“Luke. Luke Novak.”

Dean pushes the bag over so he can sit down on the bench. If he doesn’t sit down right the fuck now, he’s going to fall over.

“Oh, uh. Okay, Luke.” The name doesn’t feel bad. It feels sort of...nice, in his mouth. He could imagine Cas naming his son something like that. Matthew or Mark. Which brings him around to something else. Holy shit, Cas has a son, which means there’s another half of this equation out there somewhere. “Why don’t you just call your mom?”

“That’s funny.” Luke laughs, but Dean can tell there isn’t anything happy in it. “But she’s dead.”

Dean winces and covers his eyes with his free hand. Of all the stupid, inconsiderate things he could have said. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“I’m not a kid.” Luke grumbles.

“Okay, _not a kid_. Just how old are you.”

“...twelve.”

Dean had estimated him to be at least fifteen, but twelve makes more sense. Especially with the little he knows about Cas’s timeline.

And Cas is taking forever in the shower. How is he supposed to make small talk with a kid he doesn’t even know?

“Well, Ca-, your _Dad_ , isn’t here right now he’s in the shower.” That is never not going to be weird. “Do you want him to call you back?”

“Sure, I guess.” Dean starts to say something, but Luke barrels right over him. “You know what? Nevermind. It’s not important anyway.”

“You called four times.”

“There’s a game tomorrow.”

Dean’s eyes flick from the lockers to the floor. He’s not sure where Luke is going with that. “Uh, yeah.”

“Well, I didn’t say goodbye or anything when Dad left...”

“Dean?” Cas’s voice echoes down the hallway. His face is pinched, uncomfortable, as he comes around the corner. He keeps shifting from foot to foot. He’s clothed, thankfully. Black dress pants, and a simple white button down. This conversation would have been twenty times more awkward with a half naked Cas, that’s for damn sure. “Is that my phone.”

“No. I mean-”

“No, what?” Luke says from the other end of the line.

Dean sighs. “No, I’m talking to your Dad. Nice talking to you, Luke.” Cas’s eyes widen almost comically when Dean hands the phone over. Dean closes his fingers over it because it looks like Cas might drop it. Smirks a bit, because what else is he supposed to do? Cas has a _kid_.

He can freak out about it, or he can embrace it. The real question, is whether Dean wants Cas enough. Whether he was planning, hoping, for more than just a few months and a quick goodbye when their contracts were up.

There will be time for yelling, and dischord later, but Dean wants to hear the whole story before he jumps in with both feet.

He can’t just drop everything in the middle of the season with the best catcher he’s ever worked with. He can’t. Too much is at stake in upcoming games.

Screw the game, too much is at stake between them to lose it right now. Dean has just started to memorize the way Cas wakes up in the morning. The frowny, serious face he makes when he ties his sneakers. The smell of his aftershave that lingers on his clothes and his pillow.

Dean isn’t giving that up. Not without a good reason.

He claps Cas on the shoulder, and lifts his own bag. “Meet you in the car.”

And he leaves Cas open-mouthed, still holding the phone.

***

It’s funny that they end up screaming at each other, after that. Cas is trying to walk down the sidewalk, Dean is following several feet behind him.

Lunch had been...well, it had started off easy enough.

“I did not _lie_ to you!”

And yet, here they are.

“Oh, so you omitted certain truths, how convenient!” Dean yells back down the sidewalk. A woman in a gray dress makes a face at him, and holds her handbag tighter. Dean scowls at her until she gets out of his way. “You don’t think maybe, just maybe, I might have been interested in the fact that you had not one kid, but _two_???”

“No.” Cas stops walking, finally, and turns to face Dean. “Honestly, I didn’t think you would be. No one ever is. You never expressed any interest in a family of your own. We’ve only known each other for a few months, Dean, and we haven’t exactly been fond of each other for very long.” Cas threads a hand through his hair and licks his lips, looking anywhere but at Dean. “I didn’t tell you because I don’t tell anyone, Dean.”

“So they’re your dirty little secret.”

HIs eyes flick to Dean’s, and they’re angry as he takes a step closer and hisses. “If you would listen to me, you would understand that that has never been the case. I love Lucas and Max with everything that I am. There is a reason I don’t take them on the road with me. There is a reason I don’t want them involved in this life. They deserve a better future.”

Suddenly the reason is as obvious as the neon sign to their right. It’s laughable, even.

“You don’t want them to turn out like me and Sammy?” Dean does laugh, then. Because it’s fucking hilarious. “You think private school and nannies are the answer? You’re just as clueless as my dad was.”

“Yes, because this is all about _you_.” Cas shakes his head, and looks at the cracked sidewalk. Grinds the toe of his shoe against it, and laughs the same way Luke laughed earlier. Mirthless “I don’t want them to turn out like me, Dean.”

And he turns on his heel and walks away.


	12. You did somethin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have not dropped off the face of the earth or been abducted by angels.  
> have a chapter. :)

They win the next game.

They work for it. The entire team pulls together to defend their early lead, and keep it moving forward. Sam catches a ball that wasn’t meant for him, and ends an inning with brutal efficiency. They make three outs in a matter of seconds. Dean knocks Sam’s hat off-kilter on the way back to the benches, and the cameras catch a glimpse of the Winchester Duo as just brothers playing baseball instead of a first baseman and a pitcher. Dean grinning at his not-so-little brother as they head to the dugout.

It’s a great game, and Dean can already hear Bobby saying that they’re one step closer to where they want to be. They were crawling before, but now they’re starting to walk.

Dean wishes he could be happy about it.

Instead, when the announcers call it and the crowd goes wild, he stands on the mound, watchful and uneasy, as Cas calmly removes his glove and his helmet and filters down to the locker rooms without glancing backwards. Every step as Cas leaves echoes in his chest. His heart pounds and paces and he thinks about calling Cas back. About apologizing and trying to smooth it all over.

But he doesn’t.

The win is unsatisfying. Empty for reasons Dean doesn’t want to look at or inspect.

He’s finally got what he’s wanted. He’s building himself a reputation and a name and a career that might actually last. The team is on it’s way to a post-season and, if Dean has anything to say about it, a shot at the Series.

And yet.

Leaving the hill with Victor’s arm around his shoulders makes him feel hollowed out and uneasy. Cas isn’t in the locker room when they all stumble and laugh and trip their way to the showers. He hasn’t spoken a word to anyone, either. Sam shakes his head and shrugs. It’s been a long day, he says, maybe he went home early.

Dean doubts it.

The drive home is foggy and dark and too quiet by himself. He can’t settle on a song, and ends up turning the radio off after only a few moments. His door opens easily when he reaches it, the key turning in the lock. Dean falls into bed.

Practice the next week is tense, but solid, and Bobby doesn’t say anything but Dean can feel something building under his skin. Cas hasn’t said more than a handful of words to him. He’s directing, but not actually talking. He’s closed off and quiet and still. On the field before Dean and out of the locker rooms before Dean can catch him alone. Cas is a goddamn ghost.

It’s sort of eating Dean alive.

Sam still doesn’t get it, but Dean thinks that’s because he hasn’t watched the other Cas in action. He hasn’t had a glimpse of the Cas behind the scenes. Behind the act. He hasn’t experienced warm smiles and easy touches. He doesn’t think anything is wrong because that’s the only Cas Sam knows.

After a week of this, hurried glances at Cas on the field and half-worded apologies, the phone call is a welcome relief.

“What did you do.” Benny sounds like he’s out for blood, and Dean runs a hand over his eyes.

“Nothing. I didn’t do any-”

“You did _somethin'_.” Benny cuts him off, and there’s a frustrated noise and a crash in the background. “I saw him leave the field after the last game. He’s back to holing up in his hotel room and calling me, only to hang up a couple minutes later. So, I’m asking you, Winchester. What the hell did you do?”

Dean remembers Cas signaling during the fourth inning -quick and efficient and with blank eyes- the numbers spelling out _away, away_ , over and over. Dean remembers trying to puzzle out what it meant, what Cas was trying to say. Stay away. Look away. Go _away_.

And he thinks, _ruined it, Benny. I ruined it_.

Accusations fly out of his mouth instead. Sharp and rushed. “Why didn’t you tell me he had two kids? A heads-up would’ve been nice.”

“A million dollars would be real nice but I ain’t sharing anything with you unless Cas gives me the go ahead.” There’s a pause, and then a sigh. “He told you.”

“Not so much.”

There’s a pause, and some static and then Benny comes back. “Dean, I don’t know what you said to each other, but I could tell he was off when he walked off that field. I know what it’s like. Fix it before you can’t fix it.”

Dean hangs up with Benny, and pulls his boots on.

_

Cas opens up, gives Dean one long, measured look, and slams the door in his face.

Dean takes it very well and pounds on the door for ten minutes until someone from down the hall opens their own door and shouts at him to keep it the hell down before they call the front desk.

He ends up sitting on the plush carpeting outside of Cas’s room -legs stretched out in front of him, blocking the hallway- talking to the light seeping out from under the door.

“I thought I could do this without you, but I can’t.” It’s easy, to talk to the light. Everything pours out of him in one great rush. “I can’t argue with you when you don’t say anything. I can’t focus when you don’t stand close. I can’t watch you sign like that. I just can’t, Cas-”

The door he was leaning on gives way under his weight, and all of a sudden he’s lying, wind knocked out of his lungs, flat on his back, staring up at Cas in a pair of his old sweats. He feels all of two feet tall and two years old when Cas huffs at him and kneels.

“Are you done?”

The words are harsh, but there’s a hand on his shoulder, again, and it’s warm and solid and unmoving. Dean doesn’t dare close his eyes for more than a second, or it might all fade away. He tugs Cas down on the floor with him, arms around his neck.

“Not really, no.”

 


	13. You'll get your chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little birdie told me you might want some more! now that my dcbb is posted i have oodles of time to update :)  
> trying to get caught up a little, so another chapter for saturday? <3

“I’m sorry.”

 

Cas rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Dean-”

 

“No, just let me,” Dean gestures between them vaguely. “Okay?”

 

They’re facing off in the middle of the room, but Cas isn’t arguing; he just looks resigned at this point.

 

Dean nods to himself. “It’s not my place to judge. They’re your kids, and what I said was wrong. I don’t know anything about you, or your family, and I’m sorry.”

 

Cas opens his mouth and Dean holds his hand up, “But it’s not my fault that I didn’t know, Cas. It’s not my fault that I don’t know shit about Luke, or Max. It’s not my fault that I didn’t know you lost your wife. It’s not my fault because you didn’t tell me. You don’t get to blame me for being upset when you’ve withheld enormous pieces of yourself back in New York. So, I’m sorry for what I said and I’m sorry for arguing with you, but holding it all back? Not giving me a chance? That’s on you.”

 

“How was I supposed to tell you.” His arms are crossed over his chest. “It’s not something you just blurt out during practice or at breakfast. ‘By the way, I have two kids, but we can keep that separate from our relationship if you so choose.’”

 

“I don’t want to keep this separate!”

 

Cas looks shocked for all of two seconds before he fires right back. “Well maybe I do!!”

 

Dean inhales sharply and rocks back on his heels. It’s very quiet when he speaks again, just above a whisper. “Cas, I just thought-”

 

“What will happen to me when you’ve had enough? I’ll move on, maybe. Drink myself into a stupor for an evening and sulk for a few weeks. Whatever it is, I will get over it. It won’t be half as bad as what would happen to them. They would be heartbroken. When you leave, you will break us. And I’ve just started putting us back together again. I can’t.. ”

 

“Cas, family is everything. This might make me an asshole, but if you can’t share your life with me, then I don’t think I can stay. I want all of you, man. I want your dumb baby pictures and your scars. I want to meet your kids, eventually, and I want to see the place you call home and I want you to want to share those things with me, too.

 

And if you don’t want to go out on a limb with me because you’re positive I’m going to leave, maybe we shouldn’t be together anyway.”

 

“I don’t want to give this up.” Cas is shaking his head.

 

“Then don’t.” Dean moves across the room slowly, and tentatively reaches out. He cups Cas’s elbow, and tries to smile. “I’m asking you, to trust me on this.”

 

Cas leans his forehead against Dean’s and closes his eyes. His voice is very small. “What if it doesn’t work out.”

 

“Baby,” Dean brushes their noses together until Cas opens his eyes. “What if it does?”

 

***

 

“I hate planes. I hate being up in the air in a fucking tin can. I hate turbulence. I hate the stupid packets of peanuts they gave us to shut me up,” Dean pauses in his tirade to grit his teeth as the plane starts to move, and Cas raises an eyebrow. “What?”

 

“Do you want the window seat?”

 

“Hell. No. Make me look at how far we’re gonna fall when somebody loses control of the tin can? No thank you.”

 

The corner of Cas’s mouth ticks up. “Do you want me to hold your hand?”

 

It’s just loud enough for the pair behind them to overhear, and Gabriel jumps on it instantly.

 

“Aww they’re gonna hold hands. Victor, hold my hand while we take off. I’m a nervous flyer.”

 

“I swear to God. You try to hold my hand and you’ll come back with a bloody stump. You’re already hogging the arm rest.”

 

“Ooh, I love it when you get all feisty.”

 

The plane starts to accelerate, and Dean grips the armrest until his knuckles go white. “Oh, god, here we go.”

 

Cas wordlessly pries Dean’s fingers away, and puts the armrest up. He scoots a little closer and leans his head on Dean’s shoulder. They’re in the back of the plane, with only Victor and Gabriel behind them. Sam is sitting in the next aisle seat, reading something quietly.

 

Nobody is paying attention to Dean’s arm around Cas’s waist, and if they were, they wouldn’t say anything. Not if it keeps Dean from puking all over the aisle. Not if it keeps the team afloat.

 

“We should talk stats.”

 

Dean swallows. It’s meant as a distraction, and a good one, but stats just make him more nervous. The butterflies in his stomach start performing gymnastics; jumping jacks, and full handstands. “No, we shouldn’t.”

 

“Two more games, Dean.”

 

“Not helping, Cas.”

 

“Two games, and then we’ve made postseason. You’ll get your chance.”

 

“God, it’s going to be the Angels, isn’t it.”

 

Cas pauses to glance out of the window. “Probably.”

 

“Seriously?” Dean covers his face with the hand not tangled with Cas’s. “We’re fucked. We can’t beat them.”

 

Sam tosses an old car magazine at his brother from across the aisle and it lands in his lap. He’s frowning. “Not with that attitude. Besides, we have Cas, now. Our chance are much better with the inside track.”

 

“I haven’t been in contact with the team since I left.”

 

Dean sighs, and a small amount of tension eases from his shoulders. Of course Cas has been planning for this the whole time. Of course he’s been watching and waiting and analyzing like he always does. Suddenly the late nights with the TV make perfect sense. Cas staying up in bed with sharpies and coffee and that little frown on his face.“Your notebook is full of their stats, isn’t it.”

 

Cas’s grin is wicked. If he wasn’t on their side, if he wasn’t part of their team, Dean would be worried.

 

Instead he’s just excited. Cas has a plan, and it must be good.

 

“Which notebook?”

 

***

 

It’s raining when they touch down in Philadelphia, and the weather doesn’t look too great for the next day either. It’s no surprise that Bobby sends out the standard ‘game canceled due to rain’ mass text.

 

“Great.” Dean sighs. “Another day stuck in the city.”

 

Cas is sitting on the edge of the bed turning his phone over and over in his hand. He’s been quiet since they checked into the hotel. He let Dean order pizza and hoard the remote. He hasn’t complained about the Dr. Sexy marathon. He didn’t even make the customary pepperoni/bacon/sausage combo joke he usually does. Dean is starting to wonder if Cas is sick.

 

Dean props himself up on one elbow. “At least it’s early. We have plenty of time to go out if we want. I hear there’s an aquarium, you’d probably like that.” Cas just stares at the window, and turns his phone over again like he’s not even listening. “Or we could just stay here and order room service and have mind-blowing sex until tomorrow. I’m cool with that too.”

 

If Cas hears him, he’s tuning Dean out. He shoves his phone in his pocket, and starts pulling his clothes on. Dark jeans and a team shirt. He looks like a fan instead of a player.

 

“Three hours.”

 

Dean sits up. “What?”

 

Cas cocks his head as if he’s listening to someone spout off the traffic patterns and using them to recalculate his route. “Not even three, we could probably make it in two and a half.”

 

It hits Dean that technically they don’t have to work -or even hang out- together today, and Cas might want to do his own thing. Just because they sat together on the plane and took a room together and ordered in together doesn’t mean that Cas is going to hang out with him today. Maybe he decided on the aquarium, after all.

 

Which wasn’t exactly what Dean had in mind, but he knows a few guys a couple rooms down that are going to be in the same boat as him. Bored out of their minds and cooped up in a hotel. Dean doesn’t know how many times he took the elevator to a team floor and ended up surrounded by bubbles or balloons or chairs in the hallway or some other bullshit when the doors opened.

 

With Gabriel in the mix holding a team credit card, the sky’s the limit.

 

Cas is grabbing his wallet and shrugging into a jacket. Shoes are next, and then he’s got one hand on the door knob and he’s frowning back at Dean.

 

“Well I guess I’ll see you later then.”

 

“What are you talking about,” Cas seems to really look at Dean and finally see him; still lounging on the bed in his sweatpants, still sleep ruffled and warm. “Aren’t you coming?”

 

“Where?”

 

Cas’s face softens just barely, and he turns around fully. “Home, Dean. I thought I’d take you home.”

 


	14. You think so?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some past casxanna in this chapter just fyi. also mentions of john being an ass. :)

Cas is nervous.

Most people talk a lot when they’re nervous. Or maybe they fidget; Sam runs a hand through his hair, usually. Jess bakes, which is why Dean managed to consume three pies - apple, cherry, and pecan, Dean has affectionately started calling the baby bump _Pie_ \- the first week she found out she was pregnant.

But Cas isn’t like most people.

When Cas is nervous, he clams up. He shuts down. It’s one word answers, or nothing at all, if he can get away with it. He doesn’t tap his foot, or drum on the steering wheel, or turn the radio up to keep the quiet at bay. No, Cas drives the speed limit the entire way. He doesn’t turn the radio on, and he holds his hands at ten and two until they’re needed elsewhere. He doesn’t acknowledge Dean more than once, only asking if he wants to stop to get out. Dean does, but he doesn’t want to prolong Cas’s suffering, and he suggests they push on.

They do.

When the car finally shuts off and they’re left in the driveway, Dean looks around. It’s a nice driveway in a nice neighborhood. Paved and edged. It looks like there’s a two car garage attached to the house (to every house, really), but Dean isn’t sure. Cas rests his hands on his thighs and sits back in the driver’s seat. The car is a rental, small and sleek and definitely not Dean’s style, but it’s served it’s purpose and Dean is ready to get out.

Cas seems surprised when Dean opens the driver’s side door and holds out a hand, but he latches on like it’s a lifeline, a tether, of sorts, and Dean leads the way up the sidewalk.

There is an honest to God fountain in the neighbor’s front yard, complete with singing angels strumming harps. This entire place screams ‘gated community’. The kind of place that monitors how long it’s been since your grass was cut last, and the color of your mailbox. He would bet at least a hundred they have a committee of some kind to keep track.

Dean isn’t sure if he’s impressed, or horrified. Mostly horrified, he decides.

Thankfully, Cas’s house is more reasonable. It doesn’t have pillars or big fancy animals made out of shrubs. There’s a wraparound porch, complete with attached sunroom. It’s more of a glorified farmhouse and it seems.. nice. Warm, almost.

Cas barely has his key in the lock when the door opens and the his arms are full of someone. He makes a noise of surprise, and brightens considerably. The earlier tension hasn’t drained away from his shoulders, but his eyes are more focused as he glances back at Dean. His smile is a little less brittle.

“Luke.”

“Hey, Dad.”

They break apart, and Cas closes the door behind all three of them. Luke is grinning up at both of them, one hand stuck out to Dean, seriously. He draws himself up to his full height, and lifts his head. Luke’s grip is strong and firm, and he doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand right away. Dean hasn’t felt like he was being sized up like this since his last homecoming dance. It’s absurd. It’s awesome.

Dean grips right back until Luke stops shaking and nods, once. It feels like he’s passed some sort of test, although what kind of test, Dean couldn’t begin to guess.

A young woman peeks downstairs, and then proceeds to take them two at a time. There is a paint stained towel slung over her shoulder, and her hair is tied back. “Castiel Novak, you are not scheduled to be home for another three days, what on earth-”

“Rachel,” Cas closes his eyes briefly. “I’m terribly sorry, I should have called.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for coming home to spend time with your children.” Rachel smacks Castiel’s shoulder with the dishtowel she’s holding and Cas rubs at his arm. She frowns at Dean, assessing. “You should apologize for not telling me we were having guests. I would have cleaned up the spare bedroom if I’d known in advance.”

Cas makes introductions, only stumbling over what to call Dean, and finally landing on pitcher. It sounds seven kinds of wrong, and Dean shakes his head and amends it immediately. He isn’t just Castiel’s pitcher.

“We’re together.”

”Really.” Rachel says, dragging the word out and tipping her head towards Cas. “That’s wonderful news. ‘Zar owes me twenty bucks.”

Cas rubs at his temples, exasperated. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious.”

_

Dean gets the grand tour.

It’s a five bedroom, three bathroom deal with assumed two car garage. The kitchen is whistle worthy, complete with stainless steel everything, and gorgeous countertops. Dean isn’t drooling, he’s not. Castiel just gestures vaguely at the room. It’s obvious he didn’t choose the fixtures or the cabinets. It’s obvious he doesn’t use them. The living area is spacious and warm, a pink jacket is laying on the back of the couch. Cas hangs it up without a break in conversation.

Dinner is soup and grilled cheese, and it’s not the formal affair Dean thought it would be. They eat in front of the television, Luke and Dean and Max on the tan couch, and Castiel in the overstuffed recliner. Luke finds a Star Wars marathon within seconds of holding the remote and Dean’s night is made.

Castiel’s office is open and organized to a fault, but it’s also homey Pictures of the kids scatter the walls and his desk. One of Max’s books, Green Eggs and Ham, shares a shelf with The Bullpen Gospels and Seasons in Hell.

Cas slumps in the chair behind his desk, precariously rocked back as far as he can go without tipping over, eyes closed. Dean is trying to snoop without being intrusive, until he finds the first picture of Anna. And Cas.

His breath catches at a younger version of Cas smiling, eyes bright and wide. He’s positively beaming at Anna while she’s waving at the camera. It’s like Dean’s been sucker punched. The pair is sitting together on a field, side by side. Her baseball cap is twisted around backwards, and the knees of her pants are dirty and grass-stained. A glove - a catcher’s glove, Dean’s mind supplies - rests in her lap.

Cas can’t be more than eighteen in this picture. Hell, they’re both just kids.

“My father was a scout, did I ever tell you that?”

Dean tears his eyes away from the picture to look at the real thing and shakes his head. Cas nods once, and turns to look out of the picture window.

“I met Anna in a field by the motel not far from here, actually. She was trying to get the local boys to let her in on their game. They refused. She ended up playing catch with me instead. Anna was the one who insisted I would make a good catcher. She was..” Cas appears at a loss for words. He trails off, and shakes his head. “We kept in contact. When my father insisted I attend college, I ran towards her. Her parents managed several teams. A few minors and a well-known major. They took us on as scouts. We worked well together. Some of my best moments were spent in the sun on aluminum bleachers. Eating in out-of-the-way places, and finding hidden gems in watertower towns. With her.”

A young man running away from his family. It sounds like a romantic comedy; Dean’s waiting for the punchline.  “Which team did her parents manage?”

Cas smirks, “The Yankees, of course.”

Dean laughs at that, because of course. It explains Castiel’s knowledge of the team without ever playing for them. Another glance at the picture, and Dean is almost positive Cas’s wife was Anna Milton.

“We eloped not long after that.we went on the road again for a year. Anna started fantasizing about settling down. She bought Better Homes and Gardens at every truck stop and went through them with fierce determination.” His knuckles rasp lightly against the desk as he thinks. “We came home that winter. Luke was born not long after. I took a consulting job. Anna’s parents offered compensation for handling things like interviews and press. The hours suited her. We were.. content.”

There seems to be a ‘but’ coming, but Dean can’t figure out what might have changed, and Castiel looks like he’s had enough so he doesn’t press.

Dean falls asleep with Castiel’s arm around his waist, and his face buried in a feather pillow. It smells exactly like the shampoo Cas uses and warm linen. And he hasn’t been in the house, in Cas’s home, for very long, but he thinks he could definitely get used to this feeling. Like fresh apple pie and cut grass. He’s refreshingly sober, and he feels good about it. Dean could come to think of this as a soft spot to catch his breath.

Maybe in a few months he could come to call this feeling something like home.

_

He wakes before Cas, for once.

Dean takes the stairs carefully, and makes his way to the kitchen. He left Cas, ruffled and tucked in, sound asleep.

But Dean is wide awake, and he figures the coffee pot won’t be too difficult to figure out, so he heads for the one cup contraption, and attempts to pick something less… fruity. He’s searching for a mug when he hears something rattle on the counter.

Dean catches Max with her hand in the cookie jar. Literally.

Max is standing on a step stool, holding the lid in one hand, and the biggest chocolate chip cookie he’s ever laid eyes on in the other.

And her eyes are as wide as saucers. Dean thanks every deity he can think of that he had enough forethought to put on pants.

Max takes the cookie out of her mouth and swallows before setting it down on the counter. Caught red-handed, she doesn’t try to backpedal. She does something worse. “Please don’t tell Daddy.”

Dean can’t say he hasn’t been in this situation before. He remembers Sam - barely seven, and clumsy as all get out - spilling something sticky and sweet all over John’s new glove. Ice cream? Probably. Dean had taken that one like a champ, because it had been an accident and most of it was cleaned up by the time John got back from the bar anyway.

But this is a whole different ballgame. He’s not Max’s brother, or her father. He’s just barely becoming her friend.

But he doesn’t think Cas is one to nitpick. Sure, the kids go to a great school and the house is almost immaculate, but Cas hadn’t fussed over Max eating more grilled cheese than soup so Dean figures it won’t be a big deal.

Or he hopes it won’t.

Dean tries to smile reassuringly. “Nah, I’m not gonna tell. But just one, okay?”

“Okay,” Max’s answering grin is bright as she snatches the cookie back up and hops down. She runs to Dean, and points to the buttons on the coffee maker. “You press the one with the big cup on it.”

Dean eyes her, but she seems confident, and sure enough when he presses the button, it starts to make a brewing noise. From the mouths of babes, Dean thinks, and he tamps down on the instinctive urge to ruffle her hair fondly. “Thanks, Max.”

“You’re welcome.” She stands in the kitchen chewing her cookie for a minute or two, and then she cocks her head just like Cas, it must be a family thing, and blurts, “You make Daddy smile a lot.”

He pauses, unsure of what to say. “You think so?”

Max nods seriously. “Yep.”

Dean waits for something equally unpredictable to come out of Max’s mouth before his coffee is ready, but it never happens. She finishes her cookie, and then takes Dean’s hand and leads him to the sunroom. He goes along, because he doesn’t know the house well enough to go looking for something else to do and he doesn’t want to wake Cas if he can catch an extra hour of sleep. Besides, how much trouble can one six-year old be?

Cas finds them there, half an hour later. Dean’s coffee is cold and his hands are covered in green paint. Max is giggling behind her easel.

_

Two weeks later.

“Mr. Winchester, most of us are wondering,” The reporter adjusts the microphone and stands a little taller. Her suit is neat and crisp. “After so many consecutive wins, and the change-up, what’s your secret? During preseason practice it was reported by several sources that the dynamic between Mr. Novak and yourself was.. intense, bordering on aggressive and violent at most of the practices. And, to be honest, at least half of the people in this room are dying to know just what spurred the change that led you to a postseason.”

Next to Dean, Cas shifts in his seat and looks down at the table. His hands are clasped lightly behind his name plate. The water bottle next to him is untouched. His hair is still wet from the showers, curling at the nape of his neck. The game, finished an hour ago, is still fresh in both of their minds.

And he’s smirking because the question was directed at Dean and he knows Dean is terrible at this. At being diplomatic.

When he raises his head, he directs the smirk Dean’s way and his eyebrows almost hit his hairline. The whole room is full of people holding tape recorders and people behind cameras waiting for his answer. But somehow Cas’s silent, well?, seems more important.

Dean thinks about the house in New York, roses planted in the front yard. Reds and yellows and pinks trimmed and thriving. He thinks about Max finger painting in the sunroom before breakfast, her hair pulled back in a braid. He thinks about Luke hugging the life out of Cas before they left. He thinks about the grass somehow being greener there. About the warm, soft way Cas had kissed him the next morning over breakfast easy and light and perfect.

He thinks about Cas centering him behind home plate, drowning out the noise until it’s just the two of them -just two guys, just Dean and Castiel- and he looks back at the reporter.

“When Cas and I first met each other we, uh, I guess we both thought we knew what was best? We’re both strong players in our own ways, and I think that worked against us. We were fighting each other instead of working together, and we weren’t listening. I’ll be honest, I didn’t want to communicate.” Dean takes a breath and carefully doesn’t look at Cas, silent and suddenly serious. “When Cas first signed on I didn’t think I needed him. But, I was wrong. He took a chance on the team - on me - and once we started working together and I got off my high horse, well, it turns out we aren’t that different after all. We want the same things. We want to win.”

He gives in to the urge to glance at Cas, briefly. He’s being insanely honest with the idiots from ESPN. He should be giving vague, half-answers about hard work and perseverance and practice, practice, practice, not an in depth peek at what they’ve been going through. He wonders if Cas gets it, maybe he does. By the hand that snakes up Dean’s thigh and squeezes, Cas hears it for what is it. A refusal of his father’s legacy. An apology. An acknowledgement.

And something ..more.

“You wanna know my secret?” The reporter is still holding the mic, waiting with baited breath for the wrap up. He could be a cocky bastard and say something ridiculous like longs drives in the rain, or practice. Telling them that Cas was his saving grace is overkill. Dean just shrugs as if the answer is obvious, as if everyone should be able to see that he’s already won everything he could have hoped for. He turns his head to meet blue eyes. The hand on his thigh - hidden by the tablecloth - grounds him unlike anything else, and that seals it. Sappy or not. “Cas. Cas is my secret.”


End file.
